


^ ^-4^ * 

^o'^ '' 













U ^ <^/i— 



'OETICAJL 

^4? 



^ORK^ 



iETITIA Hil^ABETII ILAS'IO) 







PHILADELPHIA 
•JAB ,]B. SMITM <& Ci(j. 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDOK 



L. E. L. 



Mitli a Pm0ir, bn ii f a^g. 



PHILADELPHIA : 
PUBLISHED BY JAS. B. SMITH & CO. 

1859. 



?? 






L aJn «s> >■? (S 



3x. ...ZjOUtJL ^iJO. <J* 



CONTENTS. 



Preface 7 

Eosalie 25 

Home 34 

The Guerilla Chief 35 

Love, Hope, and Beauty. 40 

The Bayadere 41 

Lines of Life 50 

New Year's Eve 54 

The Battle Field 56 

The Sailor 57 

Manmadin, the Indian 

Cupid 61 

The Female Convict 63 

The Violet 65 

TheMoon 65 

Inez 66 

The Oak 70 

Love 71 

The Soldier's Funeral. . . 72 
Lines written under the 
Picture of a Grirl burn- 
ing a Love Letter 73 

The Soldier's Grave 74 

Song of the Hunter's 

Bride 75 

When should Lovers 

breathe their Vows. ... 76 

The Factory , 77 

Glencoe.; 80 

Change 83 

The Gray Cross 84 

The Lost Star 85 

The Danish Warrior's 

Death Song 86 



The Change 87 

The Aspen Tree 89 

The Emerald Ring 90 

The Little Shroud 91 

The Wreck 92 

The Frozen Ship 94 

The Nameless Grave .... 96 

Revenge 98 

A Summer Day 99 

Can you forget me ? 100 

Dr. Morrison and his 

Chinese Attendants... 102 

The Wreath 102 

The Dying Child 104 

The Ganges • 105 

The Minstrel's Monitor.. 108 
St. John in the Wilder- 
ness 109 

The Nativity Ill 

The Snowdrop 112 

The Indian Girl 114 

Kalendria 117 

Infanticide in Madagas- 
car 119 

Alexander and Philip. . . 121 
The Sultana's Remon- 
strance 123 

Hannibal's Oath 124 

The Record 125 

Corfu 126 

The Castle of Chillon. . . 128 

The River Wear 128 

Death of Louis of Bour- 
bon, Bishop of Liege. . 130 

(3) 



CONTEIftS. 



The Prop1ietes3 131 

Etty's Eover... 133 

Disenchantment 135 

The Hindoo Girl's Song, 137 

Speke Hall 138 

Sassoor, in the Deccan. . 138 

The Deserter 141 

Gladismuir 144 

The Minstrel of Portugal 149 

Ooniston Water 152 

Expectation 153 

Christ crowned with 

Thorns 154 

Warning » . . . 156 

The Coquette 158 

The Visionary..* 161 

The Orphan Ballad 

Singers . . * 164 

Hindoo and Mahomme- 

dan Buildings 165 

Lancaster Castle. . * . . . . 167 
Claverhouse at the Battle 

of BothwellBrig 168 

Manchester ...,>.«... ^ . . 169 
The Nizam's Daughter.. 171 
Ivy Bridge, Devonshire. 173 

Cottage Courtship 174 

Honister Crag 175 

The Neglected One 176 

The Pirate's Song 179 

The Church-yard... 180 

The Church at Polignac. 182 

Durham Cathedral 183 

Caldron Snout 185 

Christ blessing the Bread 186 
The Knight of Malta. . . 187 
Christ Blessing Little 

Children 189 

Derwent Water 190 

A Nightjn May.. 191 

The Widow's Mite 196 

Eskdale, Cumberland. . . 197 



The Infant Christ with 

Flowers ...*. 198 

The Phantom...- 198 

Strada Eeale— Corfu. ... 200 

The Lake of Como. ..... 201 

The Princess Victoria. . 202 
A Legend of Teignmouth 204 

Airey Force 206 

Hebe.-...,-.. 207 

The Hindoo Mother.... 208 
The City Church-yard... 210 

Fountain's Abbey 212 

Immolation of a Hindoo 

Widow.... i 213 

The Unknown Grave. . .. 214 
The. Woodland Brook. .. 215 

Eebecca ....,.,.,. 216 

The Missionary 2l7 

Valley of Linmouth 220 

The Dancing Girl 221 

The Wishing Gate 22l 

The Lily of the Valley. . 222 

The Shepherd Boy 225 

MardaleHead 226 

Dirge 227 

Windleshaw Abbey 227 

Tunis , 228 

Miller's Dale 230 

DjoiTni 231 

Death of the Lion among 
theEuins of Sbeitlah. 232 

The Forgotten One 233 

The Palace called Beau- 
tiful 236 

Scenes in London 237 

The City of the Dead. . . 239 

The Ionian Captive 242 

The Cedars of Lebanon. 244 

Belvoir Castle 245 

The Middle Temple Gar- 
dens 246 

Eobert Blake.. 248 



CONTENTS. 



Scale Force 250 

Eegatta, — Windermere 

Lake 251 

The Earl of Sandwich.. 252 
Strada St. Ursola, Malta 253 

The Altered Eiver. 254 

The Legacy of the Lute. 255 
Death and the Yo*th. . . 256 
Jesuits in Procession. ... 257 

The Devotee 257 

Admiral Collingwood. .. 259 

The Yiolet 261 

Change 262 

Edith 264 

The Feast of Life. 265 

Follow me! 266 

The Eeply of the Foun- 
tain 267 

Corfu 270 

Eaphael Sanzio . . ; 272 

Pulo Penang 274 

Fishing Boats in the 

Monsoon 275 

The Montmorency Water- 
Fall and Cone 277 

Cafes in Damascus 279 

The Delectable Moun- 
tains 280 

Sir Eobert Peel 281 

A Dutch Interior 283 

Lord Melbourne 284 

The Evening Star 285 

Felicia Hemans 287 

Gibraltar — From the Sea 290 
Eydal Water and Gras- 

mereLake 292 

Hurdwar— The Gate of 

Vishnoo #95 

Gibraltar 296 

Admiral Benbow 297 

Eoland's Tower 300 

1* 



The Covenanters 307 

Arion ; 311 

Crescentius 316 

The Crusader 318 

The Warrior 320 

Apologue 323 

A History of the Lyre. . 324 

The Nameless Grave 339 

Fantasies 341 

A Summer Evening's 

Tale 342 

The Mountain Grave 350 

The Coniston Curse 357 

The Omen 363 

Sappho 367 

Bacchus and Ariadne. , . 370 
Unknown Female Head. 375 

Leander and Hero 376 

Head of Ariadne 381 

A Nereid floating on a 

Shell 382 

An Old Man over the 

Body of his Son 384 

The Thessalian Fountain 385 
L'Amore Dominatore... 386 
The Castilian Nuptials. . 390 

The Lover's Eock ; 397 

The Painter 402 

The Spanish Page 408 

The Hall of Glenua- 

quoich 411 

Gibraltar 413 

The Basque Girl and 

Henri Quatre 414 

The Painter's Love 417 

On a Star 421 

Song 422 

Song 422 

One Day 423 

Love's Last Lesson 426 

April 431 



PKEF ACE. 

<-< » » p 

Diffidence of their own abilities, and fear, which heightens 
the anxiety for public favor, are pleas usually urged by the 
youthful writer : may I, while venturing for the first time to 
speak of myself, be permitted to say they far more truly be- 
long to one who has had experience of both praise and cen- 
sure. The feelings which attended my first publication, were 
very different from those that accompany the present volume. 
I believe I then felt little beyond hope, vague as the timidity 
which subdued it, and that excitement which every author 
must know : now, mine is a " further looking hope ; " and the 
timidity which apprehended the verdict of others, is now 
deepened by distrust of my own powers. Or, to claim my po- 
etical privilege, and express my meaning by a simile, I should 
say, I am no longer one who springs forward in the mere en- 
ergy of exercise and enjoyment ; but rather like the Olympian 
racer, who strains his utmost vigor, with the distant goal and 
crown in view. I have devoted my whole life to one object : 
in society I have but sought the material for solitude. I can 
imagine but one interest in existence,— that which has filled 
my past, and haunts my future, — the perhaps vain desire, 
when I am nothing, of leaving one of those memories at once 
a good and a glory. Believing, as I do, in the great and ex- 
cellent influence of poetry, may I hazard the expression of 
what I have myself sometimes trusted to do ? A highly cultiva- 
ted state of society must ever have for concomitant evils, that 



8 PREFACE. 

selfishness, the result of indolent indulgence ; and that heart- 
lessness attendant on refinement, which too often hardens 
while it polishes. Aware that to elevate I must first soften, 
and that if I wish to purify t must first touch, I have ever 
endeavored to bring forward grief, disappointment, the fallen 
leaf, the faded fiower, the broken heart, and the early grave. 
Surely we m\ist be less worldly, less interested, from this sym- 
pathy with the sorrow in which our unselfish feelings alone 
can take part. And now a few words on a subject, where the 
variety of the opinions offered have left me somewhat in the 
situation of the prince in the fairy tale, who, when in the vi- 
cinity of the magic fountain, found himself so distracted by 
the multitude of voices that directed his way, as to be quite in- 
capable of deciding which was the right path. I allude to 
the blame and eulogy which have been equally bestowed on 
my frequent choice of Love as my source of song. I can only 
say, that for a woman, whose influence and whose sphere 
must be in the afifections, what subject can be more fitting 
than one which it is her peculiar province to refine, spiritual- 
ize, and exalt ? I have always sought to paint it self-denying,' 
devoted, and making an almost religion of its truth ; and I 
must add, that such as I would wish to draw her, woman ac- 
tuated by an attachment as intense as it is true, as pure as it 
is deep, is not only more admirable as a heroine, but also in 
actual life, than one whose idea of love is that of light amuse- 
ment, or at worst of vain mortification. With regard to the 
frequent application of my works to myself, considering that 
I sometimes portrayed love unrequited, then betrayed, and 
again destroyed by death — may I hint the conclusions are not 
quite logically drawn, as assuredly the same mind cannot have 
suffered such varied modes of misery. However, if I must 
have an unhappy passion, I can only console myself with my 
own perfect unconsciousness of so -great a misfortune. I now 



leave the following poems to their fate 5 they must speak for 
theraselyes. I could taut express my anxiety, an anxiety only 
increased by a popularity beyond my most sanguine dreams. 

With regard to those whose former praise encouraged, 
their best recompense is the happiness they bestowed. And 
to those whose differing opinion expressed itself in censure, I 
own, after the first chagrin was past, I never laid down a cri- 
ticism by which I did not benefit, or trust to benefit. I will 
conclude by apostrophizing the hopes and fears they excited, 
in the words of the Mexiean king' — "Ye have been the feath- 
ers of my wingSj" 

L. £ii L, . 



MEMOIR. 



Letitia Elizabeth Landon was descended from Sir "William Lan- 
don, a successful participator in the South Sea Bubble, but who after- 
wards contrived to lose the whole patrimonial estates. About the 
commencement of the eighteenth century the family were settled at 
Crednall in Herefordshire, where they enjoyed some landed property. 
Her great grand father was rector of Nursted and listed in Kent, and 
a zealous antagonist of all dissent. His son was rector of Tedstono 
Delamare, near Bromyard, Herefordshire. At his death, the property 
of the family being exhausted, his children, eight in number, were left 
to make their way through the world as they could. L. E. L.'s father, 
John Landon, was the eldest of these children. He went to sea and 
made two voyages, one to the coast of Africa, and one to Jamaica. 
His friend and patron, Admiral Bowyer, dying, his career in the naval 
service was stopped. In the mean time, the next of his brothers, 
Whittington Landon, had acquired promotion in the church, and 
eventually becam'e Dean of Exeter. By his influence the father of 
the poet was established as a partner in the prosperous house of Adair, 
army agents, in Pall Mall. On this he married Catherine Jane Bishop, 
a lady of Welsh extraction, and settled in Hans-place. Here L. E. L. 
was born, on the 14th of August, 1802. Besides her, was an only 
brother, the Rev. Whittington Henry Landon. 

In her sixth year she was sent to school to Miss Rowden, at No. 22 
Hans-place ; the house in which she was destined to pass the greater 
part of her life; This lady, herself a poet, afterward became Countess 
St. Quentin, and died near Paris. In this school. Miss Mitford was 
educated j and here Lady Caroline Lamb was for a time an inmate. 
At this period L. E. Landon was here only a few months. She had 
been occasionally taken into the country, to a farm in which her father 

11 



MEMOIB. 

was deeply interested, called Coventry Farm, in Hertfordshire. She 
now went with her family to reside at Trevor Park, East Barnet, 
where her education was conducted by her cousin, Miss Landon. She 
was now about seven years old, and here the family continued to live 
about six years. Here she read a great deal of romance and poetry, 
and began to show the operation of her fancy by relating long stories 
to her parents, and indulging in long meditative walks in the lime- 
walks in the garden. Her brother was her companion, and, spite of 
her nascent authorship, they seemed to have played, and romped, and 
enjoyed themselves as children should do. They read Plutarch, and 
had a great ambition of being Spartans. An anecdote is related of 
their taking vengeance on the gardener, for some affront, by shooting 
at him with arrows with naUs stuck in them, for piles, and of his 
tossing them upon a quickset hedge for punishment ; most probably 
one of the old-fashioned square cut ones, where they would be rather 
prisoners than sufferers. This man, whose name was Chambers, L. E. 
L. taught to read ; and he afterwards saved money, and retired to keep 
an Inn at Barnet. 

Now she read the Arabian Nights, Scott's Metrical Romances, and 
Eobinson Crusoe, besides a book called "Silvester Trampe." This last 
professed to be a narrative of travels in Africa, and seems especially 
to have fascinated her imagination. No doubt that the united effects 
of this book, of other African travels, and of the fact of her father 
and one of her cousins having made voyages to that continent, had 
no little influence in deciding, the fatal step of marrying to go out to 
Cape Coast. To the happy days spent at Trevor Paj-k, and the read- 
ing of books like these, always a period of elysium to a child, L. E. 
Landon makes many references, both in her poems and her prose 
sketches, called "Traits and Trials of Early Life." Some lines ad- 
dressed to her brother commemorate these imaginative pleasures very 
graphically : — 

"'It was an August evening, with sunset in the trees, 
When home you brought his voyages, who found the fair South Seas. 
For weeks he was our idol, we sailed with him at sea, 
And the pond amid the willows, our ocean seemed to be : 
The water lilies growing beneath the morning smile. 
We called the South Sea Islands, each flower a different Isle. 
Within th^t lovely garden what happy hDurr> went by. 
While we fancied that around us spread a foreign Sea, and Sky. 
12 



MEMOIR. 



From this place the family removed to Lower-place, Fulham, whero 
they continued about a year, and then removed again to Old Bromp- 
ton. L. E. Landon now gave continually increasing signs of a pro- 
pensity to Poetry. Mr. Jerdan, the editor of " The Literary Gazette," 
was a neighbor of her father, and from time to time her compositions 
were shown to him, who at onco saw and acknowledged their great 
promise. It does not appear very clear whether she continued at 
home during this period— that is, from the time the family came to 
live here, when she was about fourteen, till the death of her father 
when she was about twenty; but it is probable that she was for a good 
part of this time at the school. No. 22 Hans-place, which was now in 
the hands of the Misses Lance, as she says of herself,—" I have lived 
all my life since childhood with the same people. The Misses Lance," 
etc. However, it was at about the age of eighteen that her contribu- 
tions appeared in " The Literary Gazette," which excited universal 
attention. These had been preceded by a little volume, now forgotten, 
"The Fate of Adelaide," a Swiss romantic talej and was speedily fol- 
lowed by " The Improvisatrice." It was during the writing of this her 
first volume of successful poetry that her father died, leaving her in 
narrow circumstances. 

L. E. Landon was a creature of town and social life. The bulk of 
her existence was spent in Hans-place, Sloane-street, Chelsea. Like 
Charles Lamb, she was so moulded to London habits and tastes, that 
that was the world to her. The country was not to her what it is to 
those who have passed a happy youth there, and learned to sympathize 
with its spirit and enjoy its calm. In one respect she was right. 
Those who look for society alone in the country, are not likely to be 
much pleased with the change from London, where every species of 
intelligence concentrates ; where the rust of intellectual sloth is brisk- 
ly rubbed off- and old prejudices, which often lie like fogs in low stiil 
nooks in the country, are blown away by the lively winds of discus- 
sion. Dr. Sam. Johnson, said on one occasion : " Sir, the man that is 
tired of London, is tired of life;" and on another, in reply to a ques- 
tion asked him of his preferences, while in Scotland, "the finest sight 
I saw, was the road to London." 

Though descended from a country family, and spending some time, 
as a child, in the country, she was not there long enough to cultivate 
those associations with places and things which cling to the heart in 
2 13 



MEMO IK 

after life. Her mind, naturally quick, and all her tastes, were devel- 
oped in the city. City life was part and parcel of her being; and aa 
she was one of the most brilliant and attractire of its children, we 
must be thankful to take her as she was. It robs us of nothing but 
of certain attributes of the picturesque im the account of her abodes. 

The history of her life from this time is chiefly the history of her 
works. "The Improvisatrice" was published in 1824; "The Trouba- 
dour" in 1825; "The Golden Violet "in 1826; "The Venitian Brace- 
let" in 1829. In 1830, she produced her first prose work, "Romance 
and Reality." In 1831, she commenced the editorship of "Fisher's 
Drawing-Room Scrap-Book," which she continiied yearly till the time 
of her marriage — eight successiTe volumes. In 1835, she published 
"Francesea Carrara ; " " The Vow of the Peacock," 1835 ; " Traits and 
Trials of Early Life," 1836 ; and in the same year " Ethel Churchill." 
Besides these works she wrote immensely in the annuals and periodi- 
cals, and edited vai-ious volumes of illustrated works for the publishers. 

None of the laborious tribe of authors ever toiled more incessantly 
or more cheerfully than Letitia Elizabeth Landon, none with a more 
devotedly generous spirit. She had the proud satisfaction of contri- 
Uvuting to the support of her family, and, to the last minute of her life, 
this great object was uppermost in her mind. On her marriage, she 
proposed to herself to go on writing still, with the prospect of being 
thus enabled to devote the whole of her literary profits to the com- 
fort of her mother and the promotion of the fortuEes of her brother. 
In all social and domestic relations no one was ever more amiable or 
more beloved. With occasional visits to diiferent parts of the country, 
and once to Paris, L. E. Landon continued livi»g in Hans-place till 
1837. The Misses Lance had given up the school about 1830, but she 
continued still to reside there with Mrs. Sheldon, their successor. In 
1837, Mrs, Sheldon quitted Ilans-place, for 28 Upper Berkley-street 
West, whither L. E. Landon accompanied her. Here she resided only 
a few months, when at the request of some much attached friends, she 
took up her abode with them in Hyde Park-street. On the 7th of 
June, 1838, she was married to Mr. Maclean, Governor of Cape Coast 
Castle, and almost immediately left this country, never to return. 

Of the abode where the greatest part of her life was spent, and 
where almost every one of her works was written, the reader will na- 
turally wish'to have some description. The foHowiug particulars are 

14 



MEMOIR- 

given by Laman Blaachard, as from the pen of a female friend. 
"Genius," says our accomplished informant, "hallows every place 
where it pours forth its inspirations." Yet how strongly contrasted, 
sometimes, is the outward reality, round the poet, with the visions of 
his inward being. D'Israeli, in his Curiosities of Literature, refer- 
ring to this frequent incongruity, mentions, among other facts, that 
Moore composed his Lalla Rookh in a barn. L. E. L. remarks on 
this subject, "a history of the Jioio and where works of imagination 
have been produced, would often be more extraordinary than the 
works themselves." Her own case, is, in some degree, an illustra- 
tion of independence of mind over all external circumstances. Per- 
haps to the L. E. L. of whom so many nonsensical things have been 
eaid, as "that she should write with a crystal pen, dipped in dew, 
upon silver paper, and use for pounce the dust of a butterfly's wing," 
a dillettante of literature would assign, for the scene of her author- 
ship, a fairy-like boudoir, with rose-colored and silver hangings, fitted 
with all the luxuries of a fasttflious taste. How did the reality agree 
with this fairy sketch ? L, E. Landon's Drawing Room, indeed, was 
prettily furnished, but it was her invariable habit to write in her bed- 
room. I see it now, that homely looking, almost uncomfortable room, 
fronting the street, and barely furnished j with a simple white bed, at 
the foot of which was a small, old, oblong-shaped sort of dressing ta- 
ble, quite covered with a common, worn writing-desk, heaped with 
papers, while some strewed the ground, the table being too small for 
aught beside the desk ; a high-backed cane chair, which gave you 
any idea rather than that of comfort, and a few books scattered about, 
completed the author's paraphernalia. 

Certainly oae would have imagined a girls' school in London just 
the last place that a poet would have fixed upon to live and work in- 
But as London was the city of cities to L. E. L., so no doubt Hans- 
place, from early associations, was to her the place of places ; and 
when she was shut in her little bed-room, was just "as poetical as any 
other place in the world. I recollect there was a little garden behind 
the house, which, if I remember aright, you saw into, through a glass 
door from the hall. At all events a person full of poetic admiration 
once calling upon her, saw a little girl skipping very actively in this 
court or garden, and was no little astonished to see the servant go up 
to her, and announce the caller, whereupon the little girl left her skip- 

25 



MEMOIB. 

ping, and turned out to be no other than L. E. L. herself. "Nobody," 
said Laman Blanchard, "who might happen to see her for the first 
time enjoying the little quiet dance of which she was fond, or the 
snug corner of the room where the lively little discussion, which she 
liked still better, was going on, could possibly hare traced, in her, one 
feature of the sentimentalist which popular error reported her to be. 
The listener might only hear her running on from subject to subject, 
and lighting up each with a wit, never ill-natured, and often brilliant | 
scattering quotations as thick as hail, opinions as wild as the winds j 
defying fair argument to keep pace with her, and fairly talking her- 
self out of breath. He would most probably hear from her lips many 
a pointed and sparkling aphorism, the wittiest things of the night, let 
who might be around her, — he would be surprised, pleased; but his 
heroine of song, as painted by anticipation, he would be unable to 
discover. He would see her, perhaps, looking younger than she really 
was, and struck by her animated air, his impression might at once 
find utterance in the exclamation which a year or two afterwards es- 
caped the lips of the Ettrick Shepherd, on being first presented to her, 
whose romantic fancies had often charmed him in the wild moun- 
tains — 'Hey ! but I did na think ye'd been sae bonnie ! ' — staring at 
the same time with all a poet's capacity of eye." 

Her intimacy with Mrs. S. C. Hall, which commenced in 1828, con- 
tinued till the close of her life ; and among the pleasures which were 
opened to her by the fame she had established, and the friendships it 
commanded for her, few were more delightful to her than the social and' 
li':erary intercourse which for years she enjoyed under the roof of Mr. 
and Mrs. Hall. They resided near her ; she was their frequent guest 
in Sloane-street and at Fulham ; and her talents could not be better 
known to the public than her estimable qualities as a companion and 
friend were known to them. 

It was at the house of this friend, in Sloane-street, that L. E. Lan- 
doii first met 

"The prince of the bards of Ms time," 

Wordsworth. Maria Edgeworth, Mrs. Jameson, Barry Cornwall, 
Allen Cunningham, Michael Thomas Sadler, and many others, then 
and since distinguished, were present. L. E. L. was delighted with 
her evening. In a letter she says : " There is a story in Plutarch, I 

15 



M E M I K . 



think, (I never vouch for the correctness of my classics,) that the day- 
after the festival complained bitterly, that its predecessor had left 
nothing for its portion, but weariness and lassitude. I have no such 
complaint to make. I am so well to-day that I really think I must 
have been a little la malade imaginaire. Amusement is mighty good 
for most complaints—I found it very beneficial for mine." 

Mrs. Hall gives the following portraiture of her lamented friend. 

"I can see her now — her dark silken hair braided back over a 
small, but what phrenologists would call a well-developed headj her 
forehead lofty, and full, and open, although the hair grew low upon 
it; the eyebrows perfect in arch and form; the eyes round, soft, and 
flashing, as they might be— gray, well formed and beautifully set— the 
lashes long and black, the under ones turning down with a delicate 
curve, and forming a soft relief upon the tint of her cheek, which 
when she enjoyed good health, was bright and blushing; her com- 
plexion was delicately fair; her skin soft and transparent; her nose 
small (retrousee); the nostril well defined, slightly curved, but capa- 
ble of a scornful expression, which she did not appear to have the 
power of repressing, even though she gave her thoughts no words, 
when any mean or despicable action was alluded to ; it would be diffi- 
cult, to describe her mouth, it was neither flat nor pouting, neither 
large nor small ; the under jaw projecting a little beyond the upper ; 
her smile was deliciously animated; her teeth white, small and even, 
and her voice and laugh soft, low, and musical; her ears were of pe- 
culiar beauty, and all who understand the beauty of the human head 
know that the ear is either pleasing to look upon, or much the con- 
trary ; her's wore very small, and of a delicate hue, and her hands and 
feet even smaller than her sylph-like figure would have led one to ex- 
pect. She would have been of perfect symmetry were it not that her 
shoulders were rather high. Her movements, when not excited by 
animated conversation, were graceful and lady-like, but when excited, 
they become sudden and almost abrupt. When she was in the first 
blush of her fame, Piekersgill made her the subject of one of his most 
perfect pictures— as a ])ieture, but I never thought it like : it was too 
womanly, too self-confident for L. E. L. And one of her greatest 
charms as a woman was the deference she paid to the opinions of 
others, and the sweet modesty with which she urged her own. She 
would defend a position with admirable wit and tact, but always with 
2* 17 



MKMOIB. 

good temper and a playful sweetness that was quite her own, never 
suffering her opponent to feel any bitterness or self-reproach if she 
gained a victory. It was almost impossible to believe the slight, 
bounding girl — bounding like a, fawn to meet those she loved, those 
of high minds and unspotted reputation, who knew all her fitful life, 
and who mourn over her early grave, as though they had lost a sister 
or a child ; it was almost impossible to fancy her the poet of so many 
gems of poetry, or the author of such bitter bitterness as steals out in 
her novels ; but, after ten minutes conversation, a person of ordinary 
observation would be convinced that, like the lily floating on the bo- 
som of our own beautiful Thames, though the blossom was on the 
surface, the roots were firmly fixed in the depths below. Where she 
was known, the only wonder was that one of such solid and varied in- 
formation, cultivated so many graces, and was so ansioUs — perhaps 
too anxious — to please those who sought her society, for fashion's sake, 
without being able to appreciate her as she deserved. Though often 
light of heart, she was never light of mind; upon the latter the weight 
of knowledge, the heaviness that grows with the knowledge of human 
nature, rested and remained. She was not hopeful either : if she did 
express a hope she generally checked herself immediately, and her 
bright smile was usually the herald of a sigh ; she had enough of 
fame, but fame never filled a woman's heart — and wherever she could 
find domestic affections, she wound her very soul about them." 

For eight successive years she edited the " Drawing-Room Scrap- 
Book." In the introduction to her first essay she says — "It is not an 
easy thing to write illustrations to pri«ts selected rather for their pic- 
torial excellence than their poetic capabilities, and mere description 
is certainly not the most popular species of composition." The diffi- 
culty was gracefully overcome, and immediate popularity was the 
result. She had long become accustomed to the task of writing to 
the subject set before her, whatever it might be, and here the topics 
presented for poetical illustration were certainly miscellaneous enough. 
On all of them, or nearly all, she found something pointed, something 
touching or eloquent to say : investing common-place with beauty — 

" Clotliiiig the palpable and the familiar with golden exhalations'; " 

while in the higher class of subjects, she found opportunities of exer- 
cising her matured powers, seemingly unconscious of restraint. Not 

18 



MEMOIK. 

merely does this work contain unquestionable evidence of the versa- 
tility of her talents, and the ease with which she could adapt them to 
the most unpromising subjects, but it comprises much of her best writ- 
ing — poems exhibiting a greatly improved taste, a more studious care 
for the harmonies of versification, a deeper and clearer vein of thought, 
and a knowledge of "the greatest art, the art to blot." 

She produced twelve accompaniments to engravings in " The Eas- 
ter Gift, a Keligious Offering." These sacred poems are in every way 
worthy of the feeling with which they were introduced. " They were 
written," she says, "in a spirit of the deepest humility, but whose fear 
is not of this world:" and she states that the illustration of these 
scriptural subjects had given her the opportunity of embodying many 
a sad and serious thought, which had arisen in hours of solitude and 
despondency. "I believe I myself am the better for their existence; I 
wish their effects may be the same on others. In this hurrying and 
deceitful world, no page will be written utterly in vain, which awakens 
one earnest or heavenward thought, one hope, or one fear, in the hu- 
man heart." 

Wm. Howitt, in his " Homes and Haunts," says of L. E. Landou : 
" In society, your first impressions of her were — what a little, light, 
simple, merry-looking girl. If you had not been aware of her being 
a popular poet, you would have suspected her of being nothing more 
than an agreeable, bright and joyous young lady. This feeling in her 
own house, or among a few congenial people, was quickly followed by 
a feeling of the kind-heartedness and goodness about her. You felt 
that you could not be long with her without loving her. There was a 
frankness and a generosity about her that won extremely upon you. 
On the other hand, in mixed companies, witty and conversant as she 
was, you had a feeling that she was playing an assumed part. Her 
manner and conversation were not only the very reverse of the tone 
and sentiment of her poems, but she seemed to say things for the sake 
of astonishing you with the very contrast. You felt not only no con- 
fidence in the truth of what she was asserting, but a strong assurance 
that it was said merely for the sake of saying what her hearers would 
least expect her to say." At one time there was a strong report that 
she was actually married. Mrs. HofSand, on her entering the room, 
went up to her in her plain, straightforward way and said, "Ah, my 
19 



MEMOIR 

^, 

dear, what must I call you ? — Miss Landon, or who ? " After a well- 
feigned surprise at the question, L. E. Landon began to talk in a tone 
of merry ridicule of this report, and ended by declaring that, as to love 
or marriage, they were things that she never thought of. 

"What, then, have you been doing with yourself this last month ?" 

"Oh, I have been puzzling my brain to invent a new sleeve; pray 
how do you like it?" showing her arm. 

"You never think of such a thing as love!" exclaimed a young, 
sentimental man; "you, who have written so many volumes of poetry 
upon it?" 

" Oh ! that's all professional, you know ! " exclaimed she, with an 
air of merry scorn. 

" Professional ! " exclaimed a grave Quaker; who stood near. " Why, 
dost thou make a difference between what is professional and what is 
real ? Dost thou write one thing and think another ? Does not that 
look very much like hypocrisy ?" 

To this the astonished poet made no reply, but by a look of genuine 
amazement. It was a mode of putting the matter to which she had 
evidently never been accustomed. 

And, in fact, there can be no question that much of her writing was 
professional. She had to win a golden harvest for the comfort of 
others, as dear to her as herself; and she felt, like all authors who 
have to cater for the public, that she must provide, not so much what 
she would of her free will choose, but what they expected from her. 

The following lines, addressed to her by Miss Jewsbury, indicate 
that such was her opinion. 

LINES TO L. E. L. 

Good night ! I have no jewels 
As parting gifts to bring, 
, But here's a frank and kiad farewell 

Thou gay and gifted thing. 

In the lonely hour of night, 

When the face puts off its mask, 
When the fevered day is over. 

And the heart hath done its task : 
20 



MEMOIR. 

When reason mourns the vanities 

That stoop the lofty will, 
Till the spirit's rook of -vvorldliaess 

Is struck, and yields no rill : 

Then, then I think of thee, friend. 

With sad and earnest thought. 
As of a child from Fairy land 

Into the desert brought : 

Forgetting there the visions 

That make of Childhood part ; 
And singing songs of Fairy land 

Without the Fairy heart : 

As of a rose at noon-tide, 

Waving proudly to the view ; 
Yet wanting in its crimson depth 

The early drop of dew 

I would my home were lovely 

As some which thou hast sung, 
I would there were around it, 

All lavish heauty flung — 

I would bear thee to its bosom, 
Thou shouldst dwell with nature free, 

And the dew of early truthfulness 
Would soon come back to thee. 

Thy life is false and feverish, 

It is like a masque to thee : 
When the task and glare is over. 

And thou grievest — come to me ! 

The subject of L. E. L.'s first volume was love : a subject which we 
might have supposed, in one so young, would have been clothed in all 
the gay and radiant colors of hope and happiness : but, on the con- 
trary, it was exhibited as the most fatal and melancholy of human 
passions. With the strange wayward delight of the young heart, ore 
it has known actual sorrow, she seemed to riot and revel amid death 

21 



MEMOIR. 

and woe ; laying prostrate life, hope, and affection. Of all the episodi- 
cal tales introduced into the general design of the principal poem, 
not one but terminated fatally or sorrowfully ; the heroine herself was 
the fading victim of crossed and wasted affections. The shorter 
poems which filled up the volume, and which were mostly of extreme 
beauty, were still based on the wrecks and agonies of humanity. 

It might be imagined that this morbid indulgence of so strong an 
appetite for grief, was but the first dipping of the playful foot into the 
sunny shallows of that flood of mortal experience, through which 
all have to pass j and but the dallying, yet desperate pleasure afford- 
ed by the mingled chill and glittering eddies of the waters, which 
might hereafter swallow up the passer-through : and that the first real 
pang of actual pain would scare her youthful fancy into the bosom of 
those hopes and fascinations with which the young mind is commonly 
only too much delighted to surround itself. But it is a singular fact, 
that, spite of her own really cheerful disposition, and spite of all the 
advice of her most influential friends, she persisted in this tone from 
the first to the last of her works, from that time to the time of her death. 
Her poems, though laid in scenes and times capable of any course of 
events, and though filled to overflowing with the splendors and high- 
toned sentiments of chivalry ; though enriched with all the colors and 
ornaments of a most fertile and sportive fancy, were still but the her- 
alds and delineations of melancholy, misfortune, and death. Let any 
one turn to any, or all, of her poeticalfvolumes and say whether this be 
not so, with very few exceptions. The very words of her first hero- 
ine might have literally been uttered as her own : — 

" Sad were my shades : methiaks they had 
Almost a tone of prophecy — 
I ever had, from earliest youth, 
A feeling what< my fate would he. 

" T?ie Tmprovisatriee.'''' 

But it was in her last few years that her heart and mind seemed 
every day to develop more strength, and to gather a wider range of 
humanity into their embrace. Nothing was more striking than the 
steady development of growing intellectual power, and of deep, gen- 
erous, and truly philosophical sentiments, tone of thought and seriouii 
experience! In the last hours of Walter Maynard she makes him 

22 



M E Ji a I B , 

ntter what must^ at tbat; period, bave beten daily moi-s ana more he? 
own conviction. "I am far cleverer than I was. I have felt, have 
thought so much ! Talk of the mind exhausting itself ! Never ! Think 
of the mass of materials which every day accumulates ! Then experi* 
ence, with its calm-'clear light, corrects so many youthful fallacies J 
every day we feel bur higher moral responsiWlity a&d our greatet 
power." 

The circumstances connected with the last home of the young poet 
are strange enough in themselves, independent of the closing tragedy^ 
That she who was educated in, and for London ; who could hardly 
bear the country / who says> she worshipped the Tery pavement of 
London; who was the idolized object of the ever-moving and throng- 
ing social cirelss of the metropolis; should go voluntarily out to the 
desert of an African coast, to a climate generally fatal to Englishwo- 
men, and the year long solitude of that government fort, was a cir- 
cumstance which astonished every one. The picture of this home of 
exile, and of herself and her duties in it, is drawn livingly by herselL 
Before giving this we may simply state that Cape Coast Castle is one 
of the eight British settlements on the Gold Coast. The Castle stands 
on a rock of gneiss and mized slate, about twenty feet above the level 
of the sea, in 5° & N. lat. and 1° 10' W. long. Outside there is a na- 
tive town ; and the adjacent country, to a considerable distance, has 
been cleared and rendered fit for cultivation. The ruling natives are 
the Fantees, a clever, stirring, turbulent race. 

In one of her letters, she gives this account of the situation anci 
scenery of the Castle : — " On three sides we aje surrounded by the 
sea. I like the perpetual dash on the rocks. One wave cornea up after' 
another, and is forever dashed in pieces, like human hopes that only 
swell to be disappointed. We advance, up springs the shining froth 
of love and hope— a moment white, then gone forever! The land 
view, with its cocoa and palm trees, is very striking i it is like a scene 
in the Arabian Nights. Of a night, the beauty is very remarkable ; 
the sea is of a silvery purple, and the moon deserves all that has been 
said in her favor. I have been only once out of the fort by daylight, 
and then was delighted. The salt lakes were first dyed a deep crim- 
son by the setting sun; and as we returned, they seemed a faint violet 
by the twilight, just broken by a thousand stars; while before us was 
the red beacon light. I must say, in itself, the place is infinitely sjt- 

23 



porior to g,ll that I ever dreataed of. The Castle is a fine building ; 
the rooms excellent. I do not suffer from heat ; insects there are few 
■or none j and I am in excellent health. The solitude, except an oc- 
casional dinner, is absolute : from seven in the morning till seven in 
the evening, wh-en we dine, I never see Mr. Maclean, and rarely any 
one eke." 

Such was her own account to relations, friends, and acquaintances, 
of her health, her feelings, her situation, her prospects, up to the even- 
ing of Sunday, the 14th of October, the night before the expected 
sailing of the vessel which was to bring that gratifying and welcome 
tidings to her native country. From herself there is no further intelli- 
gence. The Mai:lean arrived at the close of the year, bringing with 
these seeming evidences of life and hope, intelligence of the dreadful 
reality — Death, sudden death. The public papers of the 1st of Jan- 
uary, 1839, contained the following announcement : 

"Died, on Monday, the 15th of October last, at Cape Coast Castle, 
Africa, suddenly, Letitia Elizabeth, wife of George Maclean, Esq. 
Oovernor of Cape Coast." The intelligence created but one sentiment 
of grief and pity in all to whom it came ,• but to the few who received, 
at the same moment, an apparent testimonial, under her own hand, 
ef health and spirits, cheerful views and honorable endeavors, the 
shock was profound, the anguish bitter. There was a pang beyond 
even that j and it followed quick, upon the announcement that, ac- 
cording to the verdict of a coroner's jury, summoned to inquire into 
the cause of death, the lamented lady had died by poison, incautious- 
ly administered by her own hand, as a remedy for a spasmodic attaok 
with which she had been seized on the morning of the 16th. 

Such was the last, strange, solitary home of L. E. L,; such the 
strange life of one who had been before employed only in diffusing 
her beautiful fancies amid her countrymen. Here she was rising at 
■seven, giving out flour, sugar, &c. from the stores, seeing what room 
she would have cleaned, and then sitting down to write. In the midst 
of this new species of existence, she is suddenly plunged into the 
grave, leaving the wherefore a wonder. The land which was the at- 
traction of her childhood, singularly enough, thus became her sepul- 
chre. A marble slab, with a Latin inscription, is said to be erected 
there by her husband ; and in Brompton Church a monument has been 
placed by her admiring friends. 

24 



LANDOFS POEMS. 



ROSALIE. 



'Tis a wild tale — and sad, too, as the sigh 
That young lips breathe when Love's first 

dreamings fly: 
When blights and cankerwonns, and chilling 

showers, 
Come withering o'er the warm heart's passion- 
flowers. 
Love ! gentlest spirit ! I do tell of thee,— 
Of all thy thousand hopes, thy many fears, 
Thy morning blushes, and thy evening tears ; 
What thou hast ever been, and still will be. 
Life's best, but most betraying witchery ! 

It is a night of summer, — and the sea 
Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity. 
Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight 
breaks ; 
Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its 
zone. 
Like beauty's changeful smile, when that it 



25 



landon's poems. 

Some face it loves, yet fears to dwell upon. 
The waves are motionless, save where the oar, 

Light as Love's anger, and as quickly gone, 
Has broken in upon their azure sleep. 

Odours are on the air : — the gale has been 
Wandering in groves where the rich roses 

weep, — 
Where orange, citron, and the soft lime-flowera 
Shed forth their fragrance to night's dewy hours. 
Afar the distant city meets the gaze, 

Where tower and turret in the pale light shin e, 
Seen hke the monuments of other days — 
Monuments time half shadows, half displays. 
And there are many, who, with witching song 

And wild guitar's soul-thrilling melody, 
Or the lute's melting music, float along 

O'er the blue waters, still and silently. 
That night had Naples sent her best display 
Of young and gallant, beautiful and gay. 

There was a bark a little way apart 
From all the rest, and there two lovers 
leant : — 
One with a blushing cheek and beating heart, 
And bashful glance, upon the sea- wave bent ; 
She might not meet the gaze the other sent 
Upon her beauty ; — but the half-breathed sighs 
The deepening colour, timid smiling eyes, 
Told that she listen'd Love's sweet flatteries. 
Then they were silent ; — words are little aid 
To love, whose deepest vows are ever made 
By the heart's beat alone. O, silence is 
Love's o^wn peculiar eloquence of bliss '.^ 

Music swept past : — ^it was a simple tone ; 

But it has waken' d heartfelt sympathies ;— 
It has brought into life things past and gone ; 

Has waken'd all those secret memories. 
That may be smother' d, but that still will be 
Present within thy soul, ycung Rosalie ! 
The notes had roused an answering chord 
within: 

26 



ROSALIE. 

In Other days, that song her vesper hymn had 

been. 
Her alter' d look is pale : — that dewy eye 

Almost belies the smile her rich Ups wear ;— 
That smile is mor-k'd by a scarce-breathing 
sigh 
Which tells of silent and Suppress' d care — 
Tells that the hfe is withering with despair. 
More irksome from its unsunned silentness — 
A festering wound the spirit pines to bear ; 
A galling chain, whose pressure will intrude, 
Fettering Mirth's step, and Pleasure's lightest 
mood. 



Where are her thoughts thus wandering ! — ^A 
spot. 
Now distant far, is pictured on her mind,— 
A chestnut shadowing a low white cot, 
With rose and jasmine round the casement 

twined, 
Mix'd with the myrtle-tree's luxuriant blind, 
Alone, (0 ! should such sohtude be here ?) 
An aged form beneath the shade reclined, 
Whose eye glanced round the scene —and then 
a tear 
Told that she miss'd one in her heart en- 
shrined ! 
Then came remembrances of other times, 
When eve oped her rich bowers for the pale 
day; 
When the faint, distant tones of convent chimes 
Were answer' d by the lute and vesper lay ;— 
When the fond mother blest her gentle child, 
And for her welfare prayed the Virgin mild 
And she has left the aged one to steep 
Uer nightly couch with tears for that lost 
child, — 
The Rosalie, — ^who left her age to weep. 
When that the tempter flatter' d her and wiled 
Her steps away, from her own home beguiled. 
She started up in agony : — her eye 
27 



landon's poems. 

Met Manfbedi's. Softly he spoke, and 

smiled 
Memory is past, and thought and feeling lie 
Lost in one dream — all thrown on one wild die. 
They floated o'er the waters, till the moon 
Look'd from the blue sky in her zenith noon, — 
Till each glad bark at length had sought the 

shore. 
And the waves echo'd to the lute no more ; 
Then sought their gay palazzo, where the ray 
Of lamps shed light only less bright than day ; 
And there they feasted till the morn did fling 
Her blushes o'er their mirth and revelling. 

And Hfe was as a tale of faerie,— 
As when some Eastern genie rears bright 

bowers. 
And spreads the green turf and the colour'd 

flowers ; 
And calls upon the earth, the sea, the sky. 
To yield their treasures for some gentle queen 
Whose reign is over the enchanted scene. 
And Rosalie had pledged a ma^c cup— 

The maddening cup of pleasure and of love \ 
There was for her one only dream on earth ! 
There was for her one only star above !— 
She bent in passionate idolatry 
Before her heart's sole idol — Manfkedi ! 



II. 



'Tis night again — a soft and summer night ; — 
A deep blue-heaven, white clouds, moon and 

starKght ;— 
So calm, so beautiful, that human eye 
Might weep to look on such a tranquil sky : — 
A night just form'd for Hope's first dream of 

bliss. 
Or for Love's yet more perfect happiness t 

The moon is o'er a grove of cypress treesi 
Weeping, like mourners, in the plaining 
breeze ; 

2S 



ROSALIE. 

Echoing the music of a rill, whose song 
Glided so sweetly, but so sad, along. 

There is a little chapel in the shade, 
Where many a pilgrim has knelt down and 

pray'd 
To the sweet saint, whose portrait, o'er the 

shrine, 
The painter's skill has made all but divine. 
It was a pale, a melancholy face, — 
A cheek which bore the trace of frequent 
tears 
And worn by grief, — though grief might not 
efface 
The seal that beauty set in happier years ; 
And such a smile as on the brow appears 
Of one whose earthly thoughts, long since 
subdued 
Past this life's joys and sorrows, hopes and 
fears— 
The worldly dreams -o'er which the many 
brood. — 
The heart-beat hush'd in mild and chasten' d 

mood. 
It was the image of the maid who wept 

Those precious tears that heal and purify. 
Love yet upon her lip his station kept. 
But heaven and heavenly thoughts were in 
her eye. 
One knelt before the shrine, with cheek as pale 
Aa was the cold white marble. Can this bo 
The young — the loved — the happy Rosalie ? 
Alas ! alas ! hers is a common tale :— • 
She trusted, — as youth ever has believed ;— 
•She heard Love's vows — confided — was de- 
ceived ! 

Oh, Love ! thy essence is thy purity ! 
Breathe one unhallow'd breath upon thy 
flame, 
And it is gone forever, — and but leaves 
A sullied vase — its pure light lost in shame ! 
3* 29 



landon's poems. 

And Rosalie was loved,— not with that pure 
And holy passion which can age endure ; 
But loved with wild and self-consuming fires,— 
A torch which glares — and scorches — and ex- 
pires. 
A little while her dream of bliss remain'd, — 
A little while Love's wings were left unchain 'd. 
But change came o'er the trusted Manfredi : 
His heart forgot its vow'd idolatry ; 
And his forgotten love was left to brood, 
O'er wrongs and ruin in her solitude ! 

How very desolate that breast must be. 
Whose only joyance is in memory ! 
And what must woman suffer, thas I etray'd !— 
Her heart's moat warm and precious feolinga 

made 
But things wherewith to wound : that heart — 

so weak. 
So soft— laid open to the vulture's beak ! 
Its sweet reveaUngs given up to scorn 
It burns to bear, and yet that must be borne . 
And, sorer, still, that bitterer emotion, 
To know the shrine which had our soul's 

devotion 
Is that of a false deity ! — to look 
Upon the eyes we worshipp'd, and brook 
Their cold reply ! Yet these are all for her ! — 
The rude world's outcast, and love's wanderer ! 
Alas ! that love, which is so sweet a thing, 
Sliould ever cause guilt, grief, or suffering! 
Yet she upon whose face the sunbeams fall- 
That dark-eyed girl— had felt their bitterest 

thrall ! 



She thought upon her love ; and there was not 
In passion's record one green sunny spot— 
It had been all a madness and a dream, 
The shadow of a flower on the stream, 
' Which seems, bit is not ; and then memory 
turn'd 

90 



ROSALIE. 

To her lone mother. How her bosom burn'd 
With sweet and bitter thoughts ! There might 

be rest— 
The wounded dove will flee into her nest- 
That mother's arms might fold her child again, 
The cold world scorn, the cruel smite in vain, 
And falsehood be remember' d no more. 
In that calm shelter : — and she might weep o'er 
Her faults and find forgiveness. Had not she 

To whom she knelt found pardon in the eyes 

Of Heaven, in offering for sacrifice 
A broken heart ? And might not pardon be 
Also for her ? She look'd up to the face 

Of that pale saint ; and in that gentle brow, 
Which seemed to hold communion with her 
thought. 

There was a smile which gave hope energy. 
She pray'd one deep, wild prayer, — that she 

might gain 
The home she hoped ; — then sought that home 
agam. 

A flush of beauty ia upon the sky — 
Eve's last warm blushes — like the crimson dye 
The maiden wears, when first her dark eye§ 

meet 
The graceful lover's sighing at her feet. 
And there were sounds of music on the breeze. 
And perfume shaken from the citron trees ; 
While the dark chestnuts caught a golden ray 
On their green leaves, the last bright gift of day ; 
And peasants dancing gayly in the shade 
To the soft mandolin, whose light notes made 
An echo fit to the glad voices singing. 
The twilight spirit his sweet urn is flinging 
Of dew upon the lime and orange stems, 
And givmg to the rose pearl diadems. 

There is a pilgrim by that old gray tree, 
With head upon her hand bent mournfully ; 
And looking round upon each lovely thing, 
And breathing the sweet air, as they could bring 
I'o her no beauty and no solacing. 
31 



LAN don's poems. 

Tis Rosalie ! Her prayer was not in vain, 
Tlie truant- child has sought her home again ! 

It must be worth a life of toil and care, — 
Worth those dark chains the wearied one must 

bear 
Who toils up fortune's steep, — all that can 

wring 
The worn- Jut bosom with lone suffering,- 
Worth restlessness, oppression, goading fears, 
And long-deferr'd hopes of many years, — 
To reach again that little quiet spot. 
So well-loved once, and never quite forgot; — 
To trace again the steps of infancy, 
And catch their freshness from their memory ! 
And it is triumph, sure, when fortune's sun 
Has shone upon us, and our task is done. 
To show our harvest to the eyes which were 
Once all the world to us ! Perhaps there are 
Some who had presaged kindly of our youth ; 
Feel we not proud their prophecy was sooth ? 

But how felt Rosalie ? — The very air 
Seem'd as it brought reproach '. there was 
no eye 

To look delighted, welcome none was there ! 
She felt as feels an outcast wandering by 

Where every door is closed ! She looked 
around ! — 

She heard some voices' sweet familiar sound. 

There were some changed, and some remem- 
ber' d things ; 

There were girls, whom she left in their first 
springs, 

Now blush'd into full beauty. There was one 

Whom she loved tenderly in days now gone ! 

She was not dancing gayly with the rest ; 

A rose-cheek' d child within her arms was 
prest ; 
. And it had twined its small hands in the hair 

That cluster'd o'er its mother's brow: as fair 

As buds in spring. She gave her laughing dove 
32 



ROSALIE. 

To one who clasp'd it with a father's love j 
And if a painter's eye had sought a scene 
Of love in its most perfect loveliness — 
Of childhood, and of wedded happiness, — 
He would have painted the sweet Madeline ! 
But Rosalie shrank from them, and she stray' d 
Through a small grove of cypresses, whose 



Hung o'er a burying-ground, where the low 

stone 
And the gray cross recorded those now gone ! 
There was a grave just closed. Not on« 

seem'd near, 
To pay the tribute of one long — last tear ! 
How very desolate must that one be 
Whose more than grave has not a memory ! 

Then Rosalie thought on her mother's age,-— 
Just such her end would be with her away : 
No child the last cold death-pang to assuage — 
No child by her neglected tomb to pray ! 
She ask'd — and like a hope from heaven it 

came ? — 
To hear them answer with a stranger's name. 

She reach'd her mother's cottage ; by that 

gate 
She thought how her once lover wont to wait 
To tell her honey' d tales ; and then she thought 
On all the utter ruin he had wrought ! 
The moon shone brightly, as it used to do 
Ere youth> and hope,, and love, had been un 

true; 
But it shone o'er the desolate ! The flowers 
Were dead ; the faded jessamine, unbound, 
Trail'd, like a heavy weed, upon the ground; 
And fell the moonhght vainly over trees. 
Which had not even one rose, — although the 

breeze, 
Almost as if in mockery, had brought 
Sweet tones it from the nightingale had caught ! 



landon's poems. 

She enter'd in the cottage. None were there ! 
The hearth was dark, — the walls look'd cold 

and bare ! 
All — all spoke poverty and suffering ! 
All — all was changed ! and but one only thing 
Kept its old place ! Rosalie's mandohn 
Hung on the wall, where it had ever been. 
There was one other room, —and Rosalie 
Sought for her mother there. A heavy flame 
Gleam' d from a dying lamp ; a cold air came 
Damp from the broken casement. There one 

lay, 
Like marble seen but by the moonlight ray ! 
And Rosalie drew near. One wither'd hand 
Was stretch' d, as it would reach a wretched 

stand 
Where some cold water stood ! And by the bed 
She knelt — and gazed — and saw her mother — 

dead ! 



HOME. 



I LEFT my home ; — 'twas in a little vale 
Shelter'd from snow-storms by the stately 

pines, 
A small clear river wander' d quietly, 
Its Rmooth waves only cut by the light barke 
Of fishers, and but darken'd by the shade 
The willows flung, when to the southern wind 
They threw their long green tresses. On the 

slope 
Were five or six white cottages, whose roofs 
Reach'd not to the laburnum's height, whose 

boughs 
Shodk over them bright showers of golden 

bloom. 
Sweet silence reign'd around : — no other sound 
.Came on the air, than when the shepherd made 
The reed-pipe rudely musical, or notes 
From the wild birds, or children in their play 
34 



THE GUERILLA CHIEF. 

Sending forth shouts of laughter. Strangers 

come 
Rarely or never near the lonely place. . . . 
I went into far countries. Years past by, 
But still that vale in silent beauty dwelt 
Within my memory. Home I came at last. 
I stood upon a mountain height, and look'd 
Into the vale below ; and smoke arose. 

And heavy sounds ; and through the thick dim 
air 

Shot blacken'd turrets, and brick walls, and 
roofs 

Of the red tile. I enter' d in the streets : 

There were ten thousand hurrying to and fro ; 

And masted vessels stood upon the river, 

And barges sullied the once dew-clear steam. 

Where were the willows, where the cottages ? 

I sought my home ; I sought, and found a city, 

Alas ! for the green valley ? 



THE GUERILLA CHIEF. 

But the war-storm came on the mountain gale, 
A.nd man's heart beat high, though his cheek was paf6 
For blood and dust lay on the white hair, 
And the maiden wept o'er her last despair; 
rhe hearth was cold, and the child was prest 
A. corpse to the murder'd mother's breast ; 
And fear and guilt, and sorrow and shame, 
Darken'd wherever the war-fiend came. 

It stood beneatb a large old chestnut tree, 
And had stood there for years : — the moonlight 

feU 
Over the white walls, which the vine had hung 
With its thick Iraves and purple fruit : a pair 
Of pigeons, like the snow, were on the roof 
Nestled together ; and a plaining sound 
Game from a fountain murmuring through the 

wood, 

35 



landon's poems. 

Less like the voice of sorrow than of love. 
Tall trees were gather' d round:— the dark 

green beech ; 
The sycamore, with scarlet colours on, 
The herald of the autumn ; dwarf rose trees, 
Cover'd with their last wealth; the poplar tall, 
A silver spire ; olives with their pale leaves ; 
And some most graceful shrubs, amid whose 

boughs 
Were golden oranges : and hollow oaka, 
Where the bees built their honey palaces. 
It was a sUent and a lovely place. 
Where Peace might rest her white wings. But 

one came 
From out the cottage,— not as one who comes 
To gaze upon the beauty of the sky 
And fill his spirit with a calm delight ; 
But with a quick though noiseless step, as ons 
Who fears the very echo of that step 
May raise a spectre. When he reach'd thg 

fount, 
He sat down by its side, and tum'd to gaze 
Upon the cottage : from his brow the sweat 
J?our'd down like summer rain ; there came no 

sound 
From his white lips, but you might hear hia 

heart 
Beating in the deep silence. But at length , 
A voice came to his sorrow — " Never — never 
Shall I look on their face again ! Farewell ! 
I cannot bear that word's reproach, nor look 
On pale lips breathing blessings which the tear 
Belie in speaking ! I have blighted all- 
All— all their hopes, and my own happiness !" 

" Lkandro !" said a sweet and gentle voice ; 
And a soft hand press' d on his throbbing brow ; 
And tears hke twilight dew fell on his cheek. 
He look'd upon the maiden: — 'twas the one 
With whom his first pure love had dwelt, — the 

one 
Who was the sun and starUght of his youth ! 



THE GUEKILLA CHIEF. 

She Stood beside him, lovely as a saint 
Looking down pity upon penitence — 
Perhaps less bright in colour and in eye 
Than the companion of his infancy : — 
But was that cheek less fair because he knew 
That it had lost the beauty of its spring 
With passionate sorrowing for him ? She stood 
One moment gazing on his face, as there 
Her destiny was written ; and then took 
A little crucifix of ebony, 
And placed it in his bosom from her own :— 
" And this, Leandeo ! — -this shall be thy guide ! 
Thy youth has been a dream of passion ; guilt 
And evil has been round thee : — ^go thy way ! 
The showers of thy youth will clear to summer. 
My prayers be with thee !" — " Prayers !— ! 

nothing more ! 
Have I then lost thy love— thy precious love ? 
The only green leaf of my heart is wither'd!" 
She blush' d a deep-red blush; her eloquent eyes 
Met his almost reproachfully, and her face 
Was the next moment hidden on his bosom. 
But there was happiness even in that farewell, 
Affection and deep confidence. 
Tenderness, hope, — for Love lights Hope — and 

tears, 
Delicious tears ! the heart's own dew. 

They parted. 
Leandeo kept that little cross like life : 
And when beneath the sky of Mexico, — 
When earth and even heaven were strange to 

him, — 
The trees, the flowers were of another growth 
The birds wore other plumes ; the very stars 
Were not those he had looked upon in boyhood. 

'Tis something, if in absence we can see 
The footsteps of the past : — it soothes the heart 
To breathe the air scented in other years 
By hps belov'd; to wander through the groves 
Where once we were not lonely, — where the 
rose 

4 37 



LANDON S POEMS. 

Reminds us of the hair we used to wreath 
With its fresh buds— where every hill and vale, 
And wood and fountain, speak of time gone 

by;- 
And Hope springs up in joy from Memory's 

ashes. 

Leandro felt not these :-^that crucifix 
Was all that wore the look of other days— 
'Twas as a dear companion. Parents, home. 
And more than all, Bianca, whose pure reign. 
Troubled by the wild passions of his youth, 
Had now regain' d its former influence, — 
All seem'd to hear the vows he made for her, 
To share his hopes, feel for his deep remorse, 
And bless him, and look forward. 

And at last 
Once more the white sail bore him o'er the sea. 
And he saw Spaiit again. But war was there— 
And his road lay through ruin'd villages. 
Though cold, the ashes still were red, for blood 
Had quench' d the flames: and aged men sat 

down, 
And would not leave the embers, for they said 
They were too old to seek another home. 
Leandro met with one whom he had known 
In other days, and ask'd of his own valley :-— 
It yet was safe, unscath'd by the. war storrit. 
He knelt down in deep thankfulness ; and then, 
Through death and danger, sought the grove 

once more. 

His way had been through a thick beechen 

wood; 
The moon, athwart the boughs, had pour'd her 

light. 
Like hope, to guide him onwards. 
One more turn, and he should gaze upon his 

home ! 
He paused in his heart's overflowing bliss. 
And thought how he should wake them from 

ibeir dreams-^ 

38 



THE GUKEILLA CHIEF. 

Perchance of him ! — of his Bianca's blush ! 
He heard the music of the fountain come — ■ 
A sweet and welcome voice upon the wind- 
lie bounded on with the light steps of hope, 
Of youth and happiness. He left the wood, 
And look'd upon — a heap of mingled blood 
And blacken' d ashes wet upon the ground! 

He was awaken' d from his agony 
By the low accents of a woman's voice ; — ■ 
He look'd, and knew Bianca. She was law 
Beside the fountain, while her long black han 
Hung Uke a veil down to her feet : her eyes, 
So large, so dark, so wild, shone through the 

gloom, 
ijrlaring like red insanity. She saw 
Her lover, shriek' d, and strove to fly — 
But fell: — her naked feet were gash'd with 

,wounds. 
" And I have met thee but to see thee die !" 
Leandro cried, as he laid the pale face 
Upon his breast, and sobb'd like a young child. 
In vain he dash'd the cold stream on her face 
Still she lay like a corpse within his arms 
At length he thought him of a giant tree. 
Whose hollow trunk, when children, they had 

oft 
Call'd borne in playfulness. He bore her there , 
And of fresh flowers and the dry leaves he made 
A bed for his pale love. She waked at last, 
But not to consciousness ; her wandering eyes 
Fix'd upon him, and yet she knew him not ! — 
Fever was on her lip and in her brain, 
And as Leandro watch' d, his heart grew sick 
To hear her rave of outrage, wrongs, and 

death ; — ■ 
How they were waken' d from their midnight 

sleep 
By gleaming steel — curses — and flaming roof! 
And then she groan' d and pray'd herself to die ! 

It was an evening when through the green 
leaves 

39 



landon's poems. 

Of the old chestnut shot the golden hght 
Of the rich sunset ; into the fresh air 
Leandko bore the maiden he had nurst 
As the young mother nurses her sick child. 
She laid her head upon his heart, and slept 
Her first sweet, quiet sleep : the evening star 
Gleam' d through the purple twilight when she 

waked 
Her memory aroused not to the full— • 
O, that was mercy !— but she knew her love , 
And over her pale face a calm smile shone,— 
Fondly though faintly breathed and bless' d hia 

name ! 
That night the moonhght shone upon Leandbo 
And in his arms^a corpse j * * * * 

He hved in one deep feeling — ^in revenge: 
With men he mingled not but in the battle ;— 
His mingling there was deadly ! When tlie 

Gaul 
Was driven from the land which he had spoil' d, 
That dark chief sought Bianca's grave !— A 

cross 
Marks the Guerilla and the Maiden's tomb ! 



LOVE, HOPE, AND BEAUTY. 

Love may be increased by fears, 

May be fann'd with sighs, 
Nurst by fancies, fed by doubts ; 

But without Hope it dies ' 
As in the far Indian isles 

Dies the young cocoa tree. 
Unless within the pleasant shade 

Of the parent plant it be : 
So Love may spring up at first 

Lighted at Beauty's eyes :— 
But Beauty is not all its fife, 

For without hope it dies. 
40 



I 

I 

■ THE BAYADERE. 

AN INDIAN TALE. 



["The Bayadere" was taken from some facni 
lecoUection of a tale I had either read or heard; 
and meeting with the word " Bayadere" many years 
after, recalled it to my memory as a subject exqui- 
sitely poetical. I have been, since, told it was a 
poem of Goethe's. This poem has never been, to my 
knowledge, translated ; and, being ignorant of the 
German language, 1 am unable to say whether the 
tale conforms to the original or not.] 



There were seventy pillars around the hall, 
Of wreath' d gold was each capital, 
And the roof was fretted with amber and gems, 
Such as light kingly diadems ; 
The floor was marble, white as the snow 
Ere its pureness is stain' d by its fall below : 
In the midst play'd a fountain, whose starry 

showers 
Fell, like beams, on the radiant flowers, 
Whose colours were gleaming, as every one 
Burnt from the kisses just caught from the sun ; 
And vases sent forth their silvery clouds. 
Like those which the face of the young moon 

shrouds. 
But sweet as the breath of the twdlight hour 
When the dew awakens the rose's power. 
At the end of the hall was a sun-bright throne. 
Rich with every glorious stone ; 
And the purple canopy overhead 
Was like the shade o'er the day-fall shed ; 
And the couch beneath was of buds half blown, 
Hued with the blooms of the rainbow's zone ; 
And round, like festoons a vine was roll'd, 
4* 41 



LANDON'S POEMS. 

Whose leaf was of emerald, whose fruit was of 

gold. 
But though graced as for a festival, 
There was something sad in that stately hall '. 
There floated the breath of the harp and flute,— 
But the sweetest of every music is mute : 
There are flowers of light, and spiced pet 

fume,— 
But there wants the sweetest of breath and ol 

bloom : 
And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear. 
For the smiling of woman shineth not here. 
With urns of odour o'er trim weeping. 
Upon the couch a youth is sleeping : 
His radiant hair is bound with stars, 

Such as shine on the brow of night, 
Filling the dome with diamond rays. 

Only than his own curls less bright. 
And such a brow, and such an eye 
As fit a young divinity ; 
A brow like twiUght's darkening line. 
An eye like morning's first sunshine, 
Now glancing through the veil of dreams 
As sudden fight at daybreak streams. 
And richer than the mingled shade 
By gem, and gold, and purple made. 
His orient wings closed o'er his head ; 

Like that bird's, bright with every dye, 
Whose home, as Persian bards have said, 

Is fix'd in scented Araby. 
Some dream is passing o'er him now — 
A sudden flush is on his brow ; 
A.nd from his lip come murmur' d words, 
Low, but sweet as the Ught lute chords 
When o'er its strings the night winds gfida 
To woo the roses by its side. 
He, the fair boy-god, whose nest 
Is in the water-lily's breast ; 
He of the many-arrow' d bow, 
Of the joys that come and go 
Like the leaves, and of the sighs 
Like the winds of summer skies, 
42 



THE BAYADERE. 

Blushes like the birds of spring, 
Soon seen and soon vanishing ; 
He of hopes, and he of fears. 
He of smiles, and he of tears — 
Young Camdeo, he has brought 
A. sweet dream of colour' d thought, 
One of love and woman's power, 
To Mandai.la's sleeping hour. 

Joyless and dark was his jewell'd throne. 
When Mandalla awaken'd and found him 

alone. 
He drank the perfume that around him swept, 
Twas not sweet as the sigh he drank as he 

elept ; 
There was music, but where was the voice at 

whose thrill 
Every pulse in his veins was throbbing still ? 
And dim was the home of his native star 
While the light of woman and love was afar ; 
And lips of the rosebud, and violet eyes 
Are the sunniest flowers in Paradise. 
He veil'd the hght of his glorious race 
In a mortal's form and a mortal's face ; 
And 'mid earth's loveliest sought for one 
Who might dwell in his hall and share in hia 

throne. 

The loorie brought to his cinnamon nest 
The bee from the midst of its honey quest, 
And open the leaves of the lotus lay 
To welcome the noon of the summer day. 
It was glory, and hght, and beauty all. 
When Mandalla closed his wing in Bengal. 
He stood in the midst of a stately square, 
As the waves of the sea roll'd the thousands 

there ; 
Their gathering was round the gorgeous car 
Where sat in his triumph the Subadar ; 
For his sabre was red wdth the blood of tho 

Blaiif^ 



- LANDONS POEMS. 

A 'id his proudest foes were slaves in his chain ; 
And the sound of the trumpet, the sound of his 

name, 
Rose in shouts from the crowd as onwards he 

came. 
With gems and gold on his ataghan, 
A thousand warriors led the van, 
Mounted on steeds black as the night, 
But with foam and with stirrup gleaming in 

light ; 
And another thousand came in their rear. 
On white horses, arm'd wdth bow and spear, 
With quivers of gold on each shoulder laid. 
And with crimson belt for each crooked blade. 
Then follow'd the foot ranks, — their turbana 

show'd 
Like flashes of light from a mountain cloud, 
For white were the turbans as winter snow. 
And death-black the foreheads that darken'd 

below ; 
Scarlet and white was each soldier's vest. 
And each bore a lion of gold on his breast, 
For this was the chosen band that bore 
The lion standard, — it floated o'er 
Their ranks hke morning ; at every wave 
Of that purple banner, the trumpets gave 
A martial salute to the radiant fold 
That bore the lion king wrought in gold. 
And last the elephant came, whose towe 
Held the lord of this pomp and power : 
And round that chariot of his pride, 

Like chains of white sea-pearls, 
Or braids enwove of summer flowers, 

Ghded fair dancing girls ; * 

And as the rose leaves fall to earth. 

Their light feet touch' d the ground,- 
But for the zone of silver bells 

Yoa had not heard a sound, 
As, scattering flowers o'er the way, 
Whirl'd round the beautiful array. 
But there was one who 'mid them sltone 
A planet lovely and alone, 
44 



THE BAYADEEE, 

A rose, one flower amid many, 

But still the loveliest of any : 

Though fair her arm as the moonlight, 

Others might raise an arm as white ; 

Though hght her feet as music's fall, 

Others might be as musical; 

But where were such dark eyes as hers I. 

So tender, yet withal so bright, 
As the dark orbs had in their smile 

Mingled the light of day and night. 
And where was that wild grace which shed 
A loveliness o'er every tread, 
A. beauty shining through the whole. 
Something which spoke of heart and soul. 
The Almas had pass'd lightly on. 
The arm'd ranks, the crowd, were gone,. 
Yet gazed Mandalla on the square 
As she he sought still gUded there,— 
O that fond look, whose eyeballs' strain, 
And will not know its look in vain ! 
At length he turn'd, — his silent mood 
Sought that impassion' d soUtude. 
The Eden of young hearts, when first 
Love in its loneliness is nurst. 
He sat him by a Uttle fount ; 

A tuhp tree grew by its side, 
A lily with its silver towers 

Floated in silence on the tide ; 
And far round a banana tree 
Extended its green sanctuary ; 
And the long grass, which was his seat, 
With every motion grew more sweet, 
Yielding a more voluptuous scent 
At every blade his pressure bent. 
And there he linger' d, till the sky 
Lost somewhat of its brilliancy, 
And cnmson shadows roU'd on the west, 
And raised the moon her diamond crest, 
And came a freshness on the trees. 
Harbinger of the evening breeze, 
When a sweet far sound of song. 
Borne by the breath of flowers along, 
45 



LANDON'S POEMS. 

A mingling of the voice and lute, 

Such as the wind-harp, when it makes 
Its pleasant music to the gale 

Which kisses first the chords it breaks. 
He foUow'd where the echo led, 

Till in a cypress-grove he found 
A funeral train, that round a grave 

Pour'd forth their sorrows' wailing sound ; 
And by the tomb a choir of girls. 

With measured steps and mournful notes. 
And snow-white robes, while on the air, . 
Unbound their wreaths, each dark curl floats, 
Paced round and sang to her who slept 
Calm, while then- young eyes o'er her wept. 
And she, that loveUest one, is here, 
The morning's radiant Bayadere : 
A darker light in her dark eyes,— 

For tears there are, — a paler brow 
Changed but to charm the morning's smile, 

Less sparkling, but more touching now. 
And first her sweet lip prest the flute, 

A nightingale waked by the rose. 
And when that honey breath was mute, 

Was heard her low song's plaintive close, 
WaiUng for the young blossom's fall, 
The last, the most beloved of all. 
As died in gushing tears the lay, 
The band of mourners pass'd away: 
They left their wreaths upon the tomb, 
As fading leaves, and long perfume 
Of her were emblems ; and unbound 
Many a cage's gilded round. 
And set the prisoners free, as none 
Were left to love now she was gone, 
And azure wings spread on the air. 

And songs, rejoicing songs, were heard 
But, pining as forgotten now, 

Linger' d one solitary bird : 
A beautiful and pearl-white dove, 
Alone in its remembering love. 
It was a strange and lovely thing 
To mark the drooping of its wing. 
46 



THE BAYADERB. 

And how into the grave it prest, 

Till soil'd the dark earth stain its breast | 

And darker as the night-shade grewj 

Sadder became its wailing coo, 

As if it miss'd the hand that bore, 

As the cool twihght came, its store 

Of seeds and flowers. — There was onrj 

Who like that dove, was Ungering lone,-^ 

The Bayadere : her part had been 

Only the hired mourner's part 
But she had given what none might buy,— 

The precious sorrow of the heart. 
She woo'd the white do've t^her breast 
It sought at once its place of rest : 
Round it she threw her raven hair,-* 
It seem'd to love the gentle snare. 
And its soft beak was raised to sip 
The honey-dew of her red hp. 
Her dark eyes fill'd with tears, to feel 
The gentle creature closer steal 
Into her heart with soft caress. 
As it would thank her tenderness ; 
To her ' twas strange and sweet to be 
Beloved in such fond purity, 
And sigh'd Mandalla to think that sin 
Could dwell so fair a shrine within. 
" O, grief to think that she is one 
Who Uke the breeze is woo'd and won ! 
Yet sure it were a task for love 
To come like dew of the night from above 
Upon her heart, and wash away. 
Like dust from the flowers, its stain of clayj 
And win her back in her tears to heaven 
Pure, loved, and humble, and forgiven : 
Yes ! freed from the soil of her earthly thrall 
Her smile shall hght up my starry hall !" 

The moonlight is on a little bower, 
With wall and with roof of leaf and of flower, 
Built of that green and holy tree 
Which heeds not how rude the storm may be. 
Like a bridal canopy overhead 
47 



LANDON S POEMS. 

The jasmines their slender wreathings spread, 
One with stars as ivory white, 
The other with clusters of amber light ; 
Rose trees four grew by the wall, 
Beautiful each, but different all : 
One with that pure but crimson flush 
That marks the maiden's first love-blush } 
By its side grew another one, 
Pale as the snow of the funeral stone ; 
The next was rich with the damask dye 
Of a monarch's purple drapery; 
And the last had leaves Uke those leaves of gold 
Work'd on that Aapery's royal fold. 
And there were four vases with blossoms fill'd, 
Like censers of incense, their fragrance dis- 
till' d: 
Lilies, heap'd like the pearls of the sea, 
Peep'd from their large leaves' security ; 
Hyacinths Avith their graceful bells, 
Where the spirit of odour dwells 
Like the spirit of music in ocean shells ; 
And tulips, with every colour that shines 
In the radiant gems of Serendib's mines ; 
One tulip was found in every wreath, 
That one most scorch' d by the summer** 

breath. 
Whose passionate leaves with their ruby glow 
Hide the heart that hes burning and black 

below 
And there, beneath the flower'd shade 
By a pink acacia made, 
Mandalla lay, and by his side, 
With eyes, and breath, and blush that vied 
With the star and with the flower 
In their own and loveliest hour. 
Was that fair Bayadere, the dove 

^et nestling in her long black hair ; 
She has now more than that to love, 

And the loved one sat by her there. 
And by the sweet acacia porch 
They drank the softness of the breeze.-** 
O more than lovely are love's dreams, 
48 



THE BAYADKllE; 

'Mid lights and blooms and airs like these ! 
And sometimes she would leave his side, 
And Hke a spirit round him glide ; 
A light shawl now wreath' d round her brow, 
Now waving from her hand of snow, 
Now-zoned around her graceful waist, 
And now Uke fetters round her placed ; 
And then, flung suddenly aside, 
Her many curls, instead, unbound, 
Waved in fantastic braids, till loosed, 
Her long dark tresses swept the ground : 
Then, changing from the soft slow step, 

Her white feet bounded on the wind 
Like gleaming silver, and her hair 

Like a dark banner swept behind ; 
Or with her sweet voice, sweet Uke a bird's 

When it pours forth its first song in spring, 
The one Uke an echo to the other. 

She answer'd the sigh of her soft lute -string. 
And with eyes that darken'd in gentlest tears, 

Like the dewy Ught in the dark-eyed dove, 
Would she sing those sorrowing songs that 
breathe 

Some history of unhappy love. 
" Yes, thou art mine !" Mandali^a said, — 
" I have lighted up love in thy youthful heart : 
I taught thee its tenderness, now I must teacfa 

Its faith, its grief, and its gloomier part ; 
And then, from my earth stains purified. 
In my star and my hall shalt thou reign my 
bride." 

It was an evening soft and fair. 
As surely those in Eden are. 
When, bearing spoils of leaf and flower, 
E liter' d the Bayadere her bower: 
Her love lay sleeping, as she thought, 
And playfully a bunch she caught 
Of azure hyacinth bells, and o'er 

His face she let the blossoms fail;; 
" Why I am jealous of thy dreams. 

Awaken at thy Aza's call." 
5 49 



landon's poems. 

N'o answer came from him whose tone 
Had been the echo of her own. 

She spoke agam,— -no words came forth ; 

She clasp'd his hand, — she raised his head,— 
^i>ne wild, loud scream, she sank beside, 

As pale, as d, almost as dead? 

By the Ganges raised, for the morning sa® 
To shed his earliest beams ui>on, 
Is a funeral pile, — around rt stand 
Priests and the hired mourners' band. 
But who is she that so wildly prays 
To share the couch and light the blaze f 
Mandalla's love, while scornful eye 
And chilling jeers mock her agony : 
An Alma girl ! O shame, deep shame 
To Brahma's race and Brahma's name . 
Unmark'd, unpitied, she tum'd aside. 
For a moment, her bursting tears to hide, ^ 
None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire 
Blazpd redTy and fiercely the funeral pyre ; 
Then like a thought she darted by, 
And sprang on the funeral pile to die ! 

" Now thou art mine ! away, away 
To my own bright star, to my home of day t" 
A dear voice sigh'd, as he bore her along 
tJently as spring breezes bear the song, 
' ' Thy love and thy faith have won for thee 
The breath of immortality. 
Maid of earth, Mandalla is free to call 
Jk2A the queen of his heart and hall !" 



LINES OF LIFE. 



Orphan in my first years, I early learnt 
To make my heart suffice itself, and seel! 
Support and sympathy in its own depths-. 
60 



LINES OF LIFE. 

We'll, read my cheek, and watch my eye« 
Too strictly school' d are they 

One secret of my soul to show, 
One hidden thought betray. 

I never knew the time my heart 
Look'd freely from my brow ; 

It once was check' d by timidness, 
'Tis taught by caution now„ 

I live among the cold, the false. 

And I must seem like them ; 
And such I am, for I am false 

As those I most condemn. 

I teach my Up its sweetest smile. 

My tongue its softest tone : 
I borrow others' likeness, till 

Almost I lose my own. 

I pass through flattery's gilded Rev«, 

Whatever I would say ; 
In social life, all, like the blind. 

Must leeurn to feel their way. 

I check my thoughts like curbed steeds 

That struggle with the rein ; 
I bid my feelings sleep, like wrecks 

In the unfathom'd main. 

I hear them speak of love, the deep. 
The true, and mock the name ; 

Mock at all high and early truth, 
And I too do the sanie. 

I heai them tell some touching tale, 

I swallow down the tear ; 
I hear them name some generous deed. 

And I have learnt to sneer. 
51 



landon's poems. 

I hear the spiritual, the Kind, 
The pure, but named in mirth ; 

TUl all of good, ay, even hope. 
Seems exiled from our earth. 

And one fear, withering ridicule, 
Is all that I can dread ; 

A sword hung by a single hair 
For ever o'er the head. 



We bow to a most servile faith, 

In a most servile fear ; 
While none among us dares to say 

What none will choose to hear. 

And if we dream of loftier thoughia, 
In weakness they are gone ; 

And indolence and vanity 
Rivet our fetters on. 

Surely I was not born for this I 

I feel a loftier mood 
Of generous impulse, high resolve. 

Steal o'er my sohtude ! 

I gaze upon the thousand stars 

That fill the midnight sky ; 
And wish, so passionately wish, 

A Ught like theirs on high. 

I have such eagerness of hope 

To benefit my kind ; 
And feel as if immortal power 

Were given to my mind. 

I think on that eternal fame, 

The sun of earthly gloom. 
Which makes the gloriousness of death, 

The future of the tomb — 
52 



LINES OF LIFE. 

That earthly future, the faint sign 

Of a more heavenly one ; 
— A step, a word, a voice, a look, — 

Alas ! my dream is done. 

Anc earth, and earth's debasing stain. 

Again is on my soul ; 
And I am but a nameless part 

Of a most worthless whole. 

Why write I this ? because my heart 

Towards the future springs, 
That future where it loves to soar 

On more than eagle wings. 

The present, it is but a speck 

In that eternal time, 
In which my lost liopes find a home. 

My spirit knows its ciime. 

! not myself, — ^for what am I ? 
The worthless and the weak, 

Whose every thought of self should raise 
A blush to burn my cheek. 

But song has touched my lips with fire. 
And made my heart a shrine ; 

For what, although alloy'd, debased, 
Is in itselt divine. 

1 am myself but a vile link 
Amid life's weary chain ; 

But I have spoken hallow' d words, 
O do not say in vain 1 

My first, my last, my only wish, 
Say will my charmed chords 

Wake to the morning fight of fame, 
And breathe again my words ? 
' 5* 53 



LANDON S POEMS. 

Will the young maiden, when her tears 

Alone in moonlight shine — 
Tears for the absent and the loved 

Murmur some song of mine ? 

Will the pale youth by his dim lamp. 

Himself a dying flame, 
From many an antique scroll beside, 

Choose that which bears my name 1 

Let music make less terrible 

The silence of the dead ; 
I care not so my spirit last 

Long after life has fled. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

There is no change upon the air, 

No record hi the sky : 
No pall-like storm comes forth to shroud 

The year about to die. 

A few light clouds are on the heaven, 

A few tar stars are bright ; 
And the pale moon shines as she shines 

On many a common night. 

Ah, not in heaven, but upon earth ; 

Are signs of change exprest ; 
The closing year has left its mark 

On human brow and breast. 

How much goes with it to the grave 
Of hfe's most precious things ! 

Methinks each year dies on a pyre, 
Like the Assyrian kings. 
54 



LINES OF LIFE. 

AfFections, friendships, confidence, — 

There's not a year hath died 
But all these treasures of the heart 

Lie with it side by side. 

The wheels of time work heavily ; 

"We marvel day by day 
To see how from the chain of life 

The gilding wears away. 

Sad the mere change of fortune's chance, 

And sad the friend unkind ; 
But what has sadness like the change 

That in ourselves we find ? 

I've wept my castle in the dust, 

Wept o'er an alter' d brow ; 
'Tis far worse murmuring o'er those tears, 

" Would I could weep them now !" 

O, for mine early confidence. 

Which like that graceful tree 
Bent cordial, as if each approach 

Could but in kindness be ! 

Then was the time the fairy Hope 

My future fortune told. 
Or Youth, the alchymist, thatturn'd 

Whate'er he touch' d to gold. 
* 
But Hope's sweet words can never be 

What they have been of yore : 
I am grown wiser, and believe 

In fairy tales no more. 

And Youth has spent his wealth, and bough ! 

The knowledge he would fain 
Change for forgetfulness, and Uvis 

His dreaming life again. 
55 



1 



landon's poems. 

I'm weary, weary : aay-areams, years, 

I've seen alike depart, 
And sullen Care and Discontent 

Hang brooding o'er my heart. 

Another year, another year,- 

Alas ! and must it be 
That Time's most dark and weary wheel 

Must turn again for me ? 

In vain I seek from out the past 
Some cherish' d wreck to save ; 

Affection, feeling, hope, are dead,— 
My heart is its own grave ? 



THE BATTLE FIELD. 

It was a battle field, and the cold moon 

Made the pale dead yet paler. Two lay there ; 

One with the ghastly marble of the grave 

Upon his face ; the other wan, but yet 

Touch'd with the hues of life, and its warm breath 

Upon his parted lips. 

He sleeps— the night wind o'er the battle-field 

Is gently sighing ; 
Gently, though each breeze bear away 

Life from the dying. 

He sleeps, — though his dear and early friend 

A corpse lies by him ; 
Though the ravening vulture and screaming 
crow 

Are hovering nigh him. 

He sleeps,— where blood has been pour'd bTia 
rain. 
Another field before him : 
66 



THE . SAILOR. 

And he sleeps as calm as his mother's eyes 
Were watching o'er him. 

To-morrow that youthful victor's name 

Will be proudly given, 
By the trumpet's voice, and the soldier's shout, 

To the winds of heaven. 

Yet life, how pitiful and how mean, 

Thy noblest story ; 
When the high excitement of victory, 

The fulness of glory, 

Nor the sorrow felt for the friend of his youth 

Whose corpse he is keeping, 
Can give his human weakness force 

To keep from sleeping. 

« 

And this is the sum of our mortal state, 

The hopes we number, — ■ 
Feverish, waking, danger, death, 

And listless slumber. 



THE SAILOR. 

O ! gloriously upon the deep 

The gallant vessel rides, 
And she is mistress of the winds, 

And mistress of the tides. 

And never but for her tall ships 

Had England been so proud ; 
Or before the might of the Island Qaeen 

The kings of the earth had bow'd. 

But, alas '. for the widow and orphan's tesr 
When the death-flag sweeps the wave ; 

Alas ! that the laurel of victory 
Must grow but upon the grave. 
67 



landon's poems 

A.n aged widow with one only child, 
And even he was far away at sea : 
Narrow and mean the street wherein she dwelt, 
And low and small the room ; but still it had 
A look of comfort ; on the whitewash' d walls 
Were ranged her many ocean treasures — shells 
Some Hke the snow, and some pink, with a 

blush 
Caught from the sunset on the waters ; plumes 
JFrom the bright pinions of the Indian birds ; 
Long dark sea- weeds, and black and crimson 

berries, 
Were treasured with the treasuring of the heart- 
Her sailor brought them, when from his first 

voyage 
He came so sunburnt and so tall, she scarce 
Knew her fair stripling in that manly youth. • 
Like a memorial of far better days, 
The large old Bible, with its silver clasps, 
Lay on the table ; and a fragrant air 
Came from the window: there stood a rose 

tree — 
Lonely , but of luxuriant growth, and rich 
With thousand buds and beautifully blown 

flowers: 
It was a slip from that which grew beside 
The cottage, once her own, which ever drew 
Praise from each passer down the shadowy lane 
Where her home stood — the home where yej 

she thought 
To end her days in peace : that was the hope 
That made life pleasant, and it had been fed 
By the so ardent spirits of her boy. 
Who said that God would bless the efforts made 
For his old mother.— Like a holiday 
Each Sunday came, for then her patient way 
She took to the white church of her own village, 
A long five miles ; and many marvell'd, one 
So aged, so feeble, still should seek that chuich. 
They knew not how delicious the fresh air, 
How fair the green leaves and the fields, how 



58 



THE SAILOS. 

The sunshine of the country, to the eyea 
That look'd so seldom on them. She would 

sit 
Long after service on a grave, and watch 
The cattle as they grazed, the yellow corn, 
The lane where yet her home might be ; and 

then : 
Return with lighten' d heart to her dull street, 
Refresh'd with hope and pleasant memories,— 
Listen with anxious ear to the conch shell, 
wjirein they say the rolling of the sea 
Is heard distinct, pray for her absent child, 
Bless him, then dream of him. * * * 

A shoot awoke the sleeping town, the night 
Rang with the fleet's return and victory ! 
Men that were slumbering quietly rose up 
And join'd the shout : the windows gleam'a 

with lights, 
The bells rang forth rejoicingly, the paths 
Were fiU'd with people : even the lone street. 
Where the poor widow dwelt, was roused, ant 

sleep 
Was thought upon no more that night. Nex 

day — 
A bright and sunny day it was — high flags 
Waved from each steeple, and green bough- 
were hung 
In the gay market place ; music was heard. 
Bands that struck up in triumph ; and the sea 
Was cover' d vnth proud vessels ; and the boats 
Went to and fro the shore, and waving hands 
Beckon'd from crowded decks to the glaiU 

strand « 

Where the vsdfe waited for her husband,— 

maids 
Threw the bright curls back from their gGsten 

ing eyes 
And look'd their best, and as the splashing os.i 
Brought dear ones to the land, how every vojc c 
Grew musical with happiness ! And there 
Stood that old vndow woman with the rest, 
59 



landon's poems. 

Watching the ship wherein had sail'd her bo^ 
A boat came from that vessel, — heavily 
It toil'd upon the waters, and the oars 
Were dipp' d in slowly. As it near' d the beach , 
A mourning sound came from it, and a groan 
Burst from the Ups of all the anxious there, 
When they look'd on each ghastly countenance 
For that lone boat was fill'd with wounded men, 
Bearing them to the hospital,— -and then 
That aged woman saw her son. She pray'dfc 
And gain'd her prayer, that she might be^w: 

nurse, 
And take him home. He lived for many days. 
It soothed him so to hear his mother's voice, 
To breathe the fragrant air sent from the roses— 
The roses that were gather' d one by one 
For him by his fond parent nurse ; the last 
Was placed upon his pillow, and that night, 
That very night, he died ! And he was laid 
In the same churchyard where his father lay, — 
Through which his mother as a bride had 

pass'd. 
The grave was closed ; but still the widow sat 
Upon a sod beside, and silently 
(Hers was not grief that words had comfort for) 
The funeral train pass'd on, and she was left 
Alone amid the tombs ;— but once she look'd 
Towards the shadowy lane, then turn'd again, 
As desolate and sick at heart, to where 
Her help, her hope, her child, lay dead to- 
gether! 
She went home to her lonely room. Next mom 
Some sjiter'd it, and there she sat, 
^Icr white hair hanging o'er her wither' d hands 
On which her pale face leant ; the Bible lay 
Open beside, but blister'd were the leaves 
With two or three large tears, which had 

dried in. 
O, happy she had not survived her child ! 
And many pitied her, for she had spent 
Her little savings, and she had no friends ; 
€0 



MANMAt>lN, THE INDIAN CUPID. 

But strangers made her grave m that chufch 

yard, 
And where her sailor slept, there slept liia 

mother ' 



MANMADIN, THE INDIAN CUPID, 

FLOATING DOWjf thE GANGES.* 

There is a darkness on the sky. 
And the troubled waves run high, 
And the Ughtning flash is breaking. 
And the thunder peal is waking ; 
Reddening meteors, strange and bright> 
Cross the rainbow's timid Hght, 
As if mingled hope and fear, 
Storm and sunshine, shook the sphere. 
Tempest winds rush fierce along, 
Bearing yet a sound of song. 
Music's on the tempest's wing. 
Wafting thee young Manmadin ! 
Pillow' d on a lotus flower 
Gather'd in a summer hour. 
Rides he o'er the mountain wa-\e 
Which would be a tall ship's grave ! 
At his back his bow is slung, 
Sugar-cane, with wild bees strung.-^ 
Bees bom \nih the buds of spring. 
Yet ^ith each a deadly sting ; 
Grasping in his infant hand 
Arrows in their silken band. 
Each made of a signal flower, ' 

Emblem of its varied power ; 



» Camdeo, or Manmadin, the Indian Cupid, is 
pictured in Aclcermann's pretty work on Hindosian 
In another form. He is riding a green parrot, his 
bow of sugarcane, the cord of bees, and his arrows 
all siirts of flowers : but one alone is headed, and the 
head covered with honey-comb. 
6 61 



liAWDON S P0BM3. 

Some form'd of the silver leaf 
Of the almond, bright and brief, 
Just a frail and lovely thing, 
For but one hour's flourishing ; 
Others, on whose shaft there glows 
The red beauty of the rose ; 
Some in spring's half-folded bloom, 
Some in summer's full perfume ; 
Some vdth wither'd leaves and sere, 
Falling vldth the falUng year ; 
Some bright vdth the rainbow dyes 
Of the tulip's vanities ; 
Some, bound with the lily's bell 
Breathe of love that dares not tell 
Its sweet feelings ; the dark leaves 
Of the esignum, which grieves 
Droopingly, round some were bound , 
Others were with tendrils wound 
Of the green and laughing vine,— 
And the barb was dipp'd in wine, 
But all these are summer ills, 
Like the tree whose stem distils 
Balm beneath its pleasant shade 
In the wounds its thorns have made. 
Though the flowers «iay fade and die, 
'Tis but a Ught penalty. 
All these bloom-clad darts are meant 
But for a short-lived content ! 
Yet one arrow has a power 
Lasting till life's latest hour- 
Weary day and sleepless night, 
Lightning gleams of fierce delight, 
Fragrant and yet poison'd sighs, 
Agonies and ecstacies ; 
Hopes, like fires amid the gloom, 
Lighting only to consume ! 
Happiness one hasty draught, 
And the hp has venom quaff'd. 
Doubt, despairing, crime, and craft 
Are upon that honey' d shaft 1 
It has made the crowned king 
Crouch beneath his suffering ," 
62 



n 



THE FEMALE CONVICT. 

Made the beauty's cheek more pale 
Than the foldings of her veil ; 
Like a child the soldier kneel 
Who had mock'd at flame or steel ; 
Bade the fires of genius turn 
On their own breasts, and there burn i 
A wound, a blight, a curse, a doom, 
Bowing young hearts to the tomb ! 
Well may storm be on the sky, 
And the waters roll on high, 
When Manmadin passes by. 
Eahh below, and heaven above. 
Well may bend to thee, Love ! 



THE FEMALE CONVICT.* 

She shrank from all, and her silent mood 
Made her wish only for sohtude : 
Her eye sought the ground, as it could not 

brook. 
For innermost shame, on another's to look ; 
And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear 
Like deadliest words, that were curses to 

hear I — 
She still was young, and she had been fair ; 
But weather stains, hunger, toil, and care, 
That frost and fever that wear the heart, 
Had made the colours of youth depart 
From the sallow cheek, save over it came 
The burning flush of the spirit's shame. 

They were saihng o'er the salt sea-foam, 
Far from her country, far from her home ; 
And all she had left for her friends to keep 
Was a name to hide, and a memory to weep ! 
And her future held forth but the felon's lot, 
To live forsaken— to die forgot I 

• Suggested by the interesting description in fho 
Memoirs of John Nicol, mariner, quoted in tho 
Review of the Literaky Gazette. 
63 



landon's poems. 

She could not weep, and she could not pray, 
But she wasted and wither'd from day to day, 
Till you might have counted each sunken vein 
When her wrist was prest by the iron chain ; 
And sometimes I thought her large dark eye 
Had the gUsten of red insanity. 

She call'd me once to her sleeping place ; 
A strange, wild look was upon her face, 
Her eye flash' d over her cheek so white, 
Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight, 
And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone — 
The sound from mine ear hath never gone ! 
' I had last night the loveliest dream : 
My own land shone in the summer beam, 
I saw the fields of the golden grain, 
I heard the reaper's harvest strain; 
There stood on the hills the green pine tree, 
And the thrush and the lark sang merrily. 
A long and a weary way I had come ; 
But I stopp'd, methought, by mine own sweet 

home. 
I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there. 
With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair ! 
The Bible lay open upon his knee. 
But he closed the book to welcome me. 
He led me next where my mother lay, 
And together we knelt by her grave to pray. 
And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear, 
For it echo'd one to my young days dear. 
Tins dream has waked feelings long, long since 

fled; 
And hopes which I deem'd in my heart were 

dead! 
• -We have not spoken, but still I have hung 
On the northern accents that dwell on thy 

tongue ; 
To me they are music, to me they recall 
The things long hidden by Memory's pall . 
Take this long curl of yellow hair, 
And give it my father, and tell him ray prayer, 
My dying prayer, was for him." . . . 
64= 



Next day 
Upon tne deck a coffin lay ; 
They raised it up, and like a dirge 
The heavy gale swept o'er the surge ; 
The corpse was cast to the wind and wave— 
The convict has found in the green sea a grave. 



THE VIOLE^. 

Violets ! — deep-blue violets ! 
April's loveUest coronets ! 
There are no flowers grow in the vale 
Kiss'd by the dew, woo'd by the gale,— 
None by the dew of the twilight wet, 
So sweet as the deep-blue violet ; 
I do remember how sweet a breath 
Came with the azure light of a wreath 
That hung round the wild harp's golden chords, 
Which rang to my dark-eyed lover's words. 
I have seen that deep harp roll'd 
With gems of the East and bands of gold; 
But it never was sweeter than when set 
With leaves of the deep blue viol-et ! 
And when the grave shall open for me,— 
I care not how soon that time may be, — 
Never a rose shall grow on that tomb. 
It breathes too much of hope and of bloom ; 
But there be that flower's meek regret, 
The bending and deep-blue violet ! 



MOON. 



The Moon is sailing o'er the sky, 
But lonely all, as if she pined 

For somewhat of companionship. 
And felt it was in vain she shined : 
6* 65 



landon's poems. 

Earth is her mirror, and the stars 
Are as the court around her throne, 

She is a beauty and a queen ; 
But what is this ? she is alone. 

Is there not one — not one — to share 
Thy glorious royalty on high ? 

I cannot choose but pity thee, 
Thou lovely orphan of the sky. 

I'd rather be the meanest flower 

That grows, my mother Earth, on thee 

So there were others of my kin, 
To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me. 

Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death, 
But with these better could I bear. 

Than reach and rule yon radiant sphere, 
And be a Solitary there. 



INEZ.* 

Alas ! that clouds should ever steal 

O'er Love's delicious sky ; 
That ever Love's sweet lip should fe«rl 

Aught but the gentlest sigh ! 

Love is a pearl of purest hue, 
But stormy waves are round it ; 

And dearly may a woman rue 
The hour that first she found it. 



The lips that breathed this song were fait 
As those the rose-touched Houries wear. 
And dimpled by a smile, whose spell 
Not even sighs could quite dispel ; 
And eyes of that dark azure light 
Seen only at the deep midnight ; 
A cheek, whose crimson hues seem'd caught 
From the first tint by April brought 
66 



INEZ. 

1 the peach bud ; and clouds of cur! 

Over a brow of blue-veined pearl, 

Falling like sunlight, just one shade 

Of chestnut on its golden braid. 

Is »he not all too fair to weep ? 

Those young eyes should be closed in sleep, 

Dreaming those dreams the moonlight bnngs, 

When the dew falls and the nightingale sings 

Dreams of a word, of a look, of a sigh, 

Till the cheek burns and the heart beats high. 

But Inez sits and weeps in her bower, 

Pale as the gleam on the white orange flower, 

And counting the wearying moments o'er 

For his return, who returns no more ! 

There was a time — a time of bliss, — 
When to have met his Inez' kiss, 
To but look in her deep-blue eye. 
To breathe the air sweet with her sigh, 
Young J UAN would have urged his steed 
With the lightning of a lover's speed, — 
Ere she could have shed one single tear. 
He had courted danger, and smiled at fear : 
But he had parted in high disdain, 
And sworn to dash from his heart the chain 
Of one, who, he said, was too light to be 
Holy and pure in her constancy. 
Alas ! that woman, not content 
With her peculiar element 
Of gentle love, should ever try 
The meteor spells of vanity ! 
Her world should be of love alone, 
Of one fond heart, and only one. 
For heartless flattery, and sighs 
And looks false as the rainbow's dyes, . 
Are very worthless. And that morn 
Had Juan from his Inez borne 
All woman's pettiness of scorn; 
Had watch' d for her averted eye 
• In vain, — had seen a rival nigh 
And smiled u^on : he wildly swore 
To look on the false one no more, 

67 * 



LANDON S POEMS. 

Who thus could trifle, thus couid break 
A fond heart for the triumph's sake. — 
And yet she loved him,— ! how well, 
Let woman's own fond spinjt tell. 
When the warriors met in their high career, 
Went not her heart along with his spear ? 
The dance seem'd sad, and the festival dim, 
If her hand was unclaim'd by him ; 
Wakedshe her lute, ifit breathed not his name i 
Lay she in dreams, but some thought of him 

came? 
No flowers, no smiles, were on life's aull tide, 
When Juan was not by his Inez' side. 
And yet they parted ! Still there clings 
An earth-stain to the fairest things • 
And love, that most delicious gift 
Upon life's shrine of sorrow left. 
Has its own share of suffering : 
A shade falls from its radiant wing, 
A spot steals o'er its sunny brow. 
Fades the rose-lip's witching glow. 
'Tis well, — for earth were too like heaven, 
If length of life to love were given. 
He has left the land of the chestnut and lime 
For the cedar and rose of a southern clime, 
With a pilgrim's vow and a soldier's brand 
To fight in the wars of the Holy Land. 
No colours are placed on bis helm beside. 
No lady's scarf o'er his neck is tied, 
A dark plume alone does young Juan wear :~ 
Look where warriors are thickest, that plume 

will be there. 
But what has fame to do with ont 
Whose light and hope of fame are gone ? 
O, fame is as the moon above. 
Whose sun of light and life is love. 
There is more in the smile of one gentle eye 
Than the thousand pages of history ; 
There is more in the spell of one slight gaze, 
Than the loudest plaudits the crowd can rnistj, 
Take the gems in glory's coronal. 
And one smile of beauty is worth them all. 
03 



INEZ. 

He was not lonely quite, — a shade, 
A dream, a fancy, round him play'd ; 
Sometimes low, at the twilight hour. 
He heard a voice like that whose power 
Was on his heart : it sang a strain 
Of those whose love was fond, yet vain : 
Sweet Uke a dream, — yet none might say 
Whose was the voice, or whose the lay. 
And once, when worn with toil and care, 
All that the soldier has to bear. 
With none to soothe and none to bless 
His hour of sickly loneUness, 
When, waked to conscicdsness again, 
The fire gone from his heart and brain, 
He could remember some fair thing 
Around his pillow hovering ; 
Of white arms in whose clasp he slept 
Of young blue eyes that o'er him wept • 
How, when on the parched hp and brow 
Burnt the red fever's hottest glow, 
Some one had brought dew of the spring. 
With woman's own kind solacing 
And he had heard a voice, whose thrill 
Was echo'd by his bosom still. 
It was not hers — it could but be 
A dream, the fever's fantasie. * • • 

Deadly has been the fight to-day ; 
But now the infidels give way, 
And cimeter and turban'd band 
Scatter before the foeman's hand ; 
And in the rear, with sword and spur 
Follows the Christian conqueror. 
And one dark chief rides first of all-— 
A warrior at his festival- 
Chasing his prey, lill none are near 
To aid the single soldier's spear, 
Save one slight boy. Of those who flew, 
Three turn, the combat to renew ; 
They fly, but death is on the field- 
That page's breast was Juan's shield. 
He bore the boy where, in the shade 



landon's pokms. 

Of tne green palm, a iountain made 

Its pleasant music ; tenderly 

He laid his bead upon his knee, 

And from the dented helm unroll' d 

The blood-stain' d curls of summer gold. 

Knew he not then those deep blue eyes. 

That lip of rose, and smiles, and sighs? 

His Inez ! — his !— could this be her,— 

Thus for his sake a wanderer I— 

He spoke not, moved not, but sate there, 

A statue in his cold despair. 

Watching the lip and cheek decay, 

As faded life's last hue away. 

While she lay sweet and motionless, 

As only faint with happiness. 

At length she spoke, in that sweet tone 

Woman and love have for their own : 

" This is what I have pray'd might be— 

Has death not seal'd my truth to thee?" ♦ • • 

A cypress springs by yonder grave, 
And music from the fountain wave 
Sings its low dirge to the pale rose 
That, near, in lonely beauty blows. 
Two lovers sleep beneath. 0, sweet, 
Even in the grave, it is to meet ; 
Sweet even the death-couch of stone, 
When shared with some beloved one ; 
And sweeter than life the silent rest 
Of Inez on her Juan's breast. 



THE OAK. 

. . . It is the last survivor of a race 
Sirojg in their forest pride when I was youiig. 
I can remember when, for miles around. 
In place of those smooth meadows and corn- 
fields. 
There stood ten thousand stately trees, 
70 



tiove. 

Such as had braved the winds of March, the bolt 
Sent by the summer Hghtning, and the snow 
Heaping for weeks their boughs. Even in the 

depth 
Of hot July the glades were cool ; the grass, 
Vellow and parch' d elsewhere, grew long and 

fresh. 
Shading wild strawberries and violets, 
Or the lark's nest ; and overhead the dove 
Had her lone dwelling, paying for her home 
With melancholy songs ; and scarce a beech 
Was there without a honeysuckle link'd 
Around, with its red tendrils and pink flowers; 
Or girdled by a brier rose, whose buds 
Yield fragrant harvest for the honey bee. 
There dwelt the last red deer, those antler'di 

kings. 
But this is as a dream,— the plough has pass'd 
Where the stag bounded, and the day has look'd 
On the green twilight of the forest trees. 
This oak has no companion ! , . 



LOVE, 

ii 

She prest her slight hand to her brow jr 
pain 

Or bitter thoughts wei 3 passing there. The 
room 

Had no hght but that fi-om the fireside. 

Which show'd, then hid her face. How very 
pale 

It look'd, when over it the glimmer shone ! 

Is not the rose companion of the spring ? 

Then wherefore has the red-leaved flower for- 
gotten 

Her cheek ? The tears stood in her large dark 
eyes— 

Her beautiful dark eyes — like hyacinth stars 

n 



landon's poems. 

When shines their shadowy glory through the 

dew 
That summer nights have wept ;— she felt them 

not, 
Her heart was far away ! Her fragile form, 
Like the young willow when for the first time 
The wind sweeps o'er it rudely, had notlos* 
Its own peculiar grace ; but it was bow'd 
By sickness, or by worse than sickness — sor- 
row! 
And this is Love '—0 ? why should woman 

love ; 
Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope 
Happiness, are but things of which henceforth 
She'll only know the name ? Her heart is 

sear'd: 
A sweet light has been thrown upon its life. 
To make its darkness the more terrible. 
And this is Love ' 



THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 

And the muffled drum roU'd on the air. 
Warriors with stately step were there ; 
On every arm was the black crape bound, 
Every carbine was turn'd to the ground ; 
Solemn the sound of their measured tread. 
As silent and slow they follow' d the dead. 
The riderless horse was led in the rear. 
There were white plumes waving over the bier ; 
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall 
For it was a soldier's funeral. 

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain, 

Where every step was over the slain : 

But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by 

And he came to his native land to die 

'Twas hard to come to that native land, 

And nqj clasp one familiar hand ! 

'Twas hard to be number'd amid the dead, 



LINES. 

Or ere he could hear his welcome said ! 
, But 'twas something to see its chffs once more, 
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore ; 
To think that the friends of his youth might 

weep 
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep. 

The bugles ceased then: wailing sound 
As the coffin was lower' d into the ground; 
A volley was fired, a blessing said, 
One moment's pause — and they left the dead !— 
{ saw a poor and an aged man, 
His step was feeble, his lip was wan : 
He knelt him down on the new raised mound, 
His face was bow'd on the cold damp ground, 
He raised his head, his tears were done,— 
The father had pray'd o'er his only son ! 



LINES 

WRlTTEIf UNDER THE PICTXTRE OF A GHIL BUEK- 
ING A LOVE LETTER. 

The lines were filled with many a tender thing. 
All the impassion'd heart's fond communing. 

I TOOK the scroll : I could not brook, 

An eye to gaze on it save mine ; 
I could not bear another's look 

Should dwell upon one thought of thine, 
My lamp was burning by my side, 

I held thy letter to the ilame, 
I mark'd the blaze swift o'er it glide. 

It did not even spare thy name. 
Soon the Ught from the embers past, 

I felt so sad to see it die, 
So bright at first, so dark at last, 

I fear'd it was love's history. 
7 73 




THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. 

There's a white stone placed upon yoncfo* 
tomb, 

Beneath is a soldier lying . 
The death wound came amid sword andpluwt 

When banner and ball were flying. 

Tet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast, 
By wet wild flowers surrounded ; 

The church shadow falls o'er his place of re>?i 
Where the steps of his childhood bounded 

There were tears that fell from manly eyes, 
There was woman's gentler weeping. 

And the wailing of age and infant cries, 
O er the grave where he lies sleeping. 

He had left his house in his spirit's pride, 
With his father's sword and blessing' j 

He stood with the vaHant side by side, 
His country's wrongs redressing. 

He came again in the light of his fame, 
When the red campaign was over : 

One heart that in secret had kept his name. 
Was claim'd by the soldier lover. 

But the cloud of strife came upon the sky ; 

He left his sweet home for battle '. 
4nd his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry, 

And the cannon's long death-rattle. 

He came again, — ^but an alter'd man : 
The path of the grave was before him, 

74 



eON<} OF THE hunter's BBIDE. 

And the smile that he wore was cold and wan, 
For the shadow of death hung o'er him. 

He spoke of victory,— spoke of cheer :^ 
These are words that are vainly spoken — 

To the childless mother or orphan's ear^ 
Or the widow whose heart is broken. 

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone, 

Half hidden by yonder willow; 
There he sleeps, whose death in battle was 
won, 

But who died on his own home-piUow ! 



SONG OF THE HUNTER'S BRIDE. 

Anothek day— another day 

And yet he comes not nigh ; 
I look amid the dim blue hills. 

Yet nothing meets mine eye. 

I hear the rush of mountain streams 

Upon the echoes borne ; 
I hear the singing of the birds, 

But not my hunter's horn. 

The eagle sails in darliness past, 
The watchful chamois bounds ; 

But what I look for comes not near,-^ 
My Ulkic's hawk and hounds 

<Three times I thus have watch' d the enow 

Grow crimson v?ith the stain, 
The setting sun threw o'er the rock, 

And I have watch' d in vain. 

I love to see the graceful bow 
Across his shoulder slung, — 
75 



landon's poems. 

I love to see the golden horn 
Beside his baldric hung. 

I love his dark hounds, and I love 
His falcon's sweeping flight ; 

I love to see his manly cheek 
With mountain colours bright. 

I've waited patiently, but now 
Would that the chase was o'er : 

Well may he love the hunter's toil. 
But he should love me more. 

Why stays he thus ? — ^he would be her« 

If his love equall'd mine ; 
Methinks had I one fond caged dove, 

I would not let it pine. 

But, hark ! what are those ringing steps 

That up the valley come ? 
I see his hounds — I see liimself,^ 

My Ulric, welcome home ! 



WHEN SHOULD LOVERS 
BREATHE THEIR VOWS. 

When should lovers breathe their vows t 

When should ladies hear them ? 
When the dew is on the boughs, 

When none else are near them ; 
When the moon shines cold and pale, 

When the birds are sleeping, 
When no voice is on the gale, ^ 

When the rose is weeping ; 
When the stars are bright on high 

Like hopes in young Love's dreaming. 
And glancing round the light clouds fly, 

Like soft fears to shade their beaming. 
The fairest smiles are those that live 
76 



THE FACTOBY. 

On the brow by starlight wreathing; 
And the lips their richest incense give 

When the sigh is at midnight breathing. 
O, softest b the cheek's love -ray 

When seen by moonlight hours. 
Other roses seek the day, 

But blushes are night flowers. 
O, when the moon and stars are bright. 

When the dew-drops glisten, 
Then their vows should lovers plight, 

Then should ladies listen ! 



THE FACTORY. 
'Tis an accursed thing t 

Theke rests a shade above yon town, 

A dark funereal shroud : 
'Tis not the tempest hurrying down, 

'Tb not a summer cloud. 

The smoke that rises on th<( air 

Is as a type and sign ; 
A shadow flung by the despair 

Within those streets of thine. 

That smoke shuts out the cheerfiil day, 

The simset's purple hues. 
The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray, 

The morning's pearly dews. 

Such is the moral atmosphere 

Aroimd thy daily life ; 
Heavy with care, and pale withffiar, 

With future tumult rife. 

There rises on the morning wind 
A low appeaUng cry, 
7* 11 



landon's poems. 

A thousand children are resign'd 
To sicken and to die 1 

We read of Moloch's sacrifice, 

We sicken at the name, 
And seem to hear the infant cries— 

And yet we do the same ;— 

And worse — ^"twas but a moment's pain 

The heathen altar gave, 
But we give years, — our idol. Gain, 

Demands a living grave ' 

How precious is the little one, 

Before his mother's sight. 
With bright hair dancing in the sun, 

And eyes of azure light ! 

He sleeps as rosy as the south 
For summer days are long ; 

A prayer upon the little mouth, 
LuU'd by his nurse's song. 

Love is around him, and his hours 

Are innocent and free ; 
His mind essays its early powers 

Beside his mother's knee. 

When after-years of trouble come. 
Such as await msn's prime, 

How will he think of that dear home. 
And childhood's lovely time ! 

And such should childhood ever be. 

The ffdry well ; to bring 
To Ufe's worn, weary, memory 

The freshness of its spring. 
78 



THE FACTORY. 

But here the order is reversed, 

And infancy, like age, 
Knows of existence but its worst, 

One dull and darken'd page ;— 

Written with tears and stamp'd with toil 
Crush'd from the earliest hour. 

Weeds darkening on the bitter soil, 
That never knew a flower. 

Look on yon child, it droops the head, 
Its knees are bow'd with pain ; 

It mutters from its wretched bed, 
'* O, let me sleep again !" 

Alas ! 'tis time, the mother's eyes 

Turn mournfully away ; 
Alas ! 'tis time, the child must rise. 

And yet it is not day. 

The lantern's lit — she hurries forth, 
The spare cloak's scanty fold 

Scarce screens her from the snowy north, 
The child is pale and cold. 

And wearily the little hands 

Their task accustomed ply ; 
While daily, some 'mid those pale bands, 

Droop, sicKen, pine, and die. 

Good God ! to thmk upon a child 

That has no childish days. 
No careless play, no frolics wild. 

No words of prayer and praise . 

Man from the cradle — 'tis too soon 

To earn their daily bread. 
And heap the heat and toil of noon 

Upon an infant's head. 
79 



landon's poems. 

To labour ere their strength be come, 

Or starve, — is such the doom 
That makes of many an EngUsh home 

One long and hvmg tomb ? 

Is there no pity from above,— 

No mercy in those skies ; 
Hath then the heart of man no love. 

To spare such sacrifice ? 

O, England ! though thy tribute waves 

Proclaim thee great and free, 
While those small children pine like slaves, 

There is a curse on thee ! 



GLENCOE. 

Lay by the harp, sing not that song, 

Although so very sweet ; 
It is the song of other years, 

For thee and me unmeet. 

Thy head is pillow'd on my arm. 
Thy heart beats close to mine ; 

Methinks it were unjust to heaven. 
If we should now repine. 

I must not weep, you must not sing 
That thrilhng song again, — 

I dare not think upon the time 
When last I heard that strain. 

It was a silent summer eve : 
We stood by the hill side. 

And we could see my ship afar 
Breasting the ocean tide. 
80 



GLENCOE. 

Around us grew the graceful larch, 

A calm blue sky above, 
Beneath were little cottages, 

The homes of peace and love. 

Thy harp was by thee then, as now. 

One hand in mine was laid ; 
The other, wandering 'mid the chords, 

A soothing music made : 

Just two or three sweet chords, that seem'c^ 

An echo of thy tone, — 
The cushat's song was on the wind, 

And mingled with thine own. 

I look'd upon the vale beneath, 

I look'd on thy sweet face ; 
I thought how dear, this voyage i'sr 

Would be my resting place. 

We paited ; but I kept thy kisa,— 

Thy leist one, — and its sigh, 
As safely as the stars are kept 

In yonder azure sky. 

Again I stood by that hill side. 
And scarce I knew the place, 

For fire, and blood, and death, had left 
On every thing their trace. 

The lake was cover' d o'er with weeds. 

Choked was our little rill. 
There was no sign of com or grass, 
. The cushat's song was still : 

Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap 
Was every cottage round ;— 

I Usten'd but I could not hear 
One single human sound : 
81 



landon's poems. 

1 spoke, and only my own words 

Were echo'd from the hill; 
I sat me down to weep, and curfia 

The hand that wrought this ill. 

We met again by miracle : 

Thou wert another one 
Saved from this work of sin and death,— 

I was not quite alone. 

And then I heard the evil tale 

Of guih and suffering, 
Till I pray'd the curse of God might fall 

On the falps-hearted king. 

I will not think on this, — ^for thou 
Art saved, and saved for me ! 

And gallantly my Httle bark 
Cuts through the moonlight sea. 

There's not a shadow in the sky. 

The waves are bright below 
I must not, on so sweet a night, 

Think upon dark Glencoe. 

If thought were vengeance, then its thought 

A ceaseless fire should be 
Burning by day, burning by night. 

Kept like a thought of thee. 

But I am powerless and must flee ;— 
That e'er a time should come. 

When we should shun our own sweet land. 
And seek another home ! 

This must not be, — yon soh moonlight 

Falls on my heart like balm ; 
The waves are still, the air is hush'd, 

And I too will be cabn. 



CHAK6E. 

Away ! we seek another land 
Of hope, stars, flowers, sunshine; 

I shall forget the dark green hills 
Of that which once was nane I 



CHANGE. 

And this is what is left of youth ! .... 
There were two boys, who were bred up Jo 

gether, 
Shared the same bed, and fed at the sanve 

board 
Each tried the other's sport, from their foat 

chase. 
Young hunters of the butterfly and bee, 
To when they follow' d the fleet hare, and tried 
The swiftaess of the bird. They lay beside 
The silver trout stream, watching as the sun 
Play'd on the bubbles : shared each in the store 
Of either's garden : and together read 
Of him the master of the desert isle. 
Till a low hut, a gun, and a canoe, 
Bounded their wishes. Or if ever came 
A thought of future days, 'twas but to say 
That they would share each other's lot, and da 
Wonders, no doubt. But this was vain : thoy 

parted 
With promises of long remembrance, words 
Whose kindness was the heart's,^and those 

warm tears, 
Hidden Hke shame by the young eyes which 

shed them. 
But which are thought upon in after years 
As what we would give worlds to shed once 

more. 

They met agam,— but different from theiR- 
aelves, 

85 



lakdok's poems. 

At least what each remember'd of themseives : 
The one proud as a soldier of his rank, 
And of his many battles : and the other 
Proud of his Indian wealth, and of the skill 
And toil which gather' d it; each with a brow 
And heart ahke darken'd by years and care. 
They met with cold words, and yet colder 

looks : 
Each was changed in himself, and yet each 

thought 
The other only changed, himself the same. 
And coldness bred dislilie, and rivalry 
Came like the pestilence o'er some sweet 

thoughts 
That linger'd yet, healthy and beautiful. 
Amid dark and unkindly ones. And they. 
Whose boyhood had not known one jarring 

word. 
Were strangers in their age : if their eyes met, 
'Twas but to look contempt, and when they 

spoke. 
Their speech was wormwood ! . . . . 
.... And this, this is life ! 



THE GRAY CROSS. 

A GRAT cross stands beneath yon old beech 
tree; 
It marks a soldier's and a maiden's grave : 
Around it is a grove of orange trees. 
With silver blossoms and with golden fruit. 
It was a Spaniard, whom he saved from death. 
Raised that cross o'er the gallant Englishman. 

He left home a young soldier, full of hope 
And enterprise ! — befell in his first field ! 
There came a lovely pilgrim to his tomb. 
The blue-eyed girl, his own betroth'd bride,— 
Pale, delicate, — one looking as the gale 
84 



THE LOST STAB. 

That bow'd the rose could sweep her from the 

earth. 
Yet she had left her home, where every look 
Had been watch'd, O, so tenderly ! — and miles, 
Long weary miles had wander' d. When she 

came 
To the dim shadow of the aged beech, 
She was worn to a shadow ; colourless 
The cheek once dyed by her own mountain 

rose. 
She reach' d the grave and died upon the sod ! 
They laid her by her lover :— -and her tale 
Is often on the songs that the guitar 
Echoes in the lime valleys of Castile . 



THE LOST STAR. 

A treHT is gone from yonder sky, 

A star has left its sphere ; 
The beautiful — and do they die 

In yon bright world as here ? 
Will that star leave a lonely place, 

A darkness on the night ? — 
No ; few will miss its lovely face. 

And none think heaven less bright ! 

What wert thou star of? — ^vanish'd one . 

What mystery was thine ? 
Thy beauty from the east is gone : 

What was thy sway and sign ? 

Wert thou the star oi opemng youth f-^ 

And is it then for thee. 
Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth, 

So early cease to Se ? 

Of hope — and was it to express 
How soon hope sinks in shade ; 
8 85 



landon's poems. 

Or else of human; loveliness, 

In sign how it will fade ? 
How was thy dying ? like the song, 

In music to the last, 
An echo flung the winds among. 

And then forever past ? 

Or didst thou sink as stars whose light 

The fair moon renders vain ? 
The rest shone forth the next dark night, 

Thou didst not shine again. 
Didst thou fade gradual from the time 

The first great curse was hurl'd, 
Till lost in sorrow and in crime ^ 

Star of our early world ? 

Forgotten and departed star ! 

A thousand glories shine 
Round the blue midnight's regal car. 

Who then remembers thine ? 
Save when some mournful bard like m« 

Dreams over beauty gone, 
And in the fate that waited thee, 

Reads what will be his own. 



THE 
DANISH WARRIOR'S DEATH SONG. 

Away, away ! your care is vain ; 

No leech could aid me now ; 
The chill of death is at my heart, 

Its damp upon my brow. 

Weep not— I shame to see such teara 

Within a warrior's eyes : 
Away ! how can ye weep for him 

Who in the battle dies ? 

If I had died with idle head 
Upon my lady's knee— 



THE CHANGE. 

Had Fate stood by my silken bed, 
Then might ye weep for me. 

But I he on my own proud deck 

Before the sea and sky ; 
The wind that sweeps my gallant sails 

Will have my latest sigh. 

My banner floats amid the clouds, 

Another droops below : 
Well -with my heart's best blood is paid 

Such purchase from a foe. 

Go ye and seek my htdls, there dwells 

A fair hair'd boy of mine; 
Give him my sword, while yet the blood 

Darkens that falchion's shine. 

Tell him that only other blood 
Should wash such stains away ; 

And if he be his father's child, 
There needs no more to say. 

Farewell, my bark ! fssjewell, my friends ! 

Now flmg me on the wave ; 
One cup of wine, and one of blood. 

Pour on my bounding grave. 



THE CHANGE. 

Thy features do not wear the light 

They wore in happier days ; 
Though still there may be much to love^ 

There's httle left to praise. 

The rose has faded from thy cheek— 
There's scarce a blush left now ; 

87 



landon's poems. 

And there's a dark and weary sign 
Upon thine alter' d brow. 

Thy raven hair is dash'd with gray. 
Thine eyes are dim with tears ; 

And care, before thy youth is past, 
Has done the work of years. 

Beautiful wreck ! for still thy face. 

Though changed, is very fair ; 
Like beauty's moonlight, left to show 

Her morning siln was there. 

Come, here are friends and festival, 

Recall thine early smUe ; 
And wear yon wreath, whose glad red rose 

Will lend its bloom awhile. 

Come, take thy lute, and sing again 

The song you used to sing— 
The birdUke song : — See, though unused. 

The lute has every string. 

What, doth thy hand forget the lute t 

Thy brow reject the wreath ? 
Alas! whate'er the change above. 

There's more of change beneath ? 

The smile may come, the smile may go, 

The blush shine and depart ; 
But farewell when their sense is quench 'd 

Within the breaking heart. 

And such is thine : 'tis VEun to seek 

The shades of past delight : 
Fling down the wreath, and break the lute ; 

They mock our souls to-night. 



THE ASPEN TREE. 

The quiet of the evening hour 
Was laid on every summer leaf; 

That purple shade was on each flower. 
At once so beautiful, so brief. 

Only the aspen knew not rest, 

But still, with an unquiet song. 
Kept murmuring to the gentle west. 

And cast a changeful shade along. 

Not for its beauty— other trees 

Had greener boughs, and statelier stem , 
And those had fruit, and blossoms these, 

Yet still I chose this tree from them. 

Tis a strange thing, this depth of love 
Which dwells within the human heart ; 

From earth below to heaven above. 
In each, in all, it fain has part. 

It must find sympathy, or make ; 

And hence beliefs, the fond, the vain, 
The thousand shapes that fancies take, 

To bind the fine connecting chain. 

We plant pale flowers beside the tomb. 
And love to see them droop and fade ; 

For every leaf that sheds its bloom 
Seems like a natural tribute paid. 

Thus Nature soothes the grief she shares : 
What are the flowers we hold most dear f 

The one whose haunted beauty wears 
The sign of human thought or tear. 



landon's poems. 

Why hold the violet and rose 
A place wthin the heart, denied 

To fairer foreign flowers, to those 
To earlier memories allied ? 

Like those frail leaves, each restless thought 

Fluctuates in my weary mind ; 
Uncertain tree ! my fate was wrought 

In the same loom where tlune was twined. 

Ana thus from other trees around 
Did I stil/ watch the aspen tiee, 

Because in its unrest I found 
Somewhat of sympathy with me 



THE EMERALD RING. 

A SUPERSTITION. 

It is a gem which hath the power to sno« 
If plighted lovers keep their faith or no : 
If faithful, it is like the leaves of spring ; 
If faithless, like those leaves when withering 

Take back again your emerald gem. 
There is no colour in the stone ; 

It might have graced a diadem. 
But now its hue and light are gone 4 
Take back your gift, and give me mine— 

The kiss that seal'd our last love-vow ; 
Ah, other lips have been on thine,—— 

My kiss is lost and sullied now ! 
The gem is pale, the kiss forgot, 

And, more than either, you are changed • 
But my true love has alter'd not, 

My heart is broken — not estranged ? 

90 



' THE LITTLE SHROUD. 

She put him on a snow-white shroud, 

A chaplet on his head ; 
And gather' d early primroses 

To scatter o'er the dead. 

'^ 
She laid him in his little grave— 

'Twas hard to lay him there, 

When spring was putting forth its flowera, 

And every thing was fair. 

She had lost many children — ^now 

The last of them was gone ; 
And day and night she sat and wept 

Beside the funeral stone. 

One midnight, while her constant tears 

Were falling with the dew. 
She heard a voice, and lo ! her child 

Stood by her weeping too ! 

His shroud was damp, his face was white. 

He said, — " I carmot sleep. 
Your tears have made my shroud so wet, 

0, mother, do not weep!" 

O, love is strong ! — the mother's heart 

Was fill'd with tender fears ; 
0, love is strong ! — and for her child 

Her grief restrain' d its tears. 

One eve a light shone round her bed, 
And there she saw him stand— 

Her infant in his little shroud 
A taper in his hand. 
91 



landon's poems. 

" Lo ! mother, see my shroud is dry. 
And I can sleep once more ! 

And beautiful the parting smile 
The little infant wore. 

And down within the silent graTe 

He laid his weary head ; 
And soon the early violets 

Grew o'er his grassy bed. 

The mother went her household ways- 

Again she knelt in prayer, 
And only ask'd of Heaven its aid 

Her heavy lot to bear. 



THE WRECK. 

The moonlight fell on the stately ship ; 

It shone over sea and sky ; 
And there was nothing but water and air 

To meet the gazing eye. 

Bright and blue spread the heaven above. 

Bright and blue spread the sea; 
The stars from their home shone down on the 
wave. 

Till they seem'd in the wave to be. 

With silver foam like a cloud behind, 

That vessel cut her way ; 
But the shadow she cast, was the sole dark thing 

That upon the waters lay. 

With steps of power, ana with steps of pride, 

The lord of the vessel paced 
The deck, as he thought on the wave below, 

And the glorious heaven he faced. 
92 



THE WRECK. 

One moment's pause, and ms spirit fell 
From its bearing high and proud 
. But yet it was not a thought of fear, 
That the seaman's spirit bow'd : 

For he had stood on the deck when wash'd 
With blood, and that blood his own ; 

When the dying were pillow'd upon the dea#k 
And yet you heard not a groan— 

For the shout of battle came on the wmd, 

And the cannon roar'd aloud ; 
And the heavy smoke hung round each ship, 

Even like its death shroud. 

4nd he had guided the hebn, when fate 

Seem'd stepping every wave, 
And the wind swept away the wreath of foam 

To show a yawning grave. 

But this most sweet and lighted calm. 

Its blue and midnight hour, 
Waken' d the hidden springs of his heart 

With a deep and secret power. 

Is there some nameless boding sent, 
Like a noiseless voice from the tomb ?— 

A spirit note from the other world, 
To warn of death and doom ! 

He thought of his home, of his own fair land. 
And the warm tear rush'd to his eye ; 

Almost with fear he look'd around. 
But no cloud was on the sky. 

He sought his cabin, and join'd his band — 
The vnne cup was passmg round ; 

He join'd in their laugh, he jom'd in the song, 
But no mirth was in the sound; 
93 



landon's poems. 

Peaceful they sought their quiet skep, 

In the soft and lovely night ; 
But, like Ufa, the sea was felse, and hid 

The cold dark rock from sight. 

At midnight there came a sudden shock. 
And the sleepers sprang from bed; 

There was one fierce cry of last despair — 
The waves closed over head. 

There was no dark cloud on the morning sky, 
No fierce wind on the morning air ; 

The sun shone over the proud ship's track, 
But no proud ship was there ! 



THE FROZEN SHIP. 

The fair ship cut the billows, 
And her path lay white behind, 

And dreamily amid her sails 
Scarce moved liie sleeping wind. 

The sailors sang their gentle songs, 
Whose words were home and love ; 

Waveless the wide sea spread beneath— 
And calm the heaven above. 

But as they sung, each voice tum'd low. 

Albeit they knew not why ; 
For qiiiet was the waveless sea, 

And cloudless was the sky. 

But the clear air was cold as clear ; 

' Twas pain to draw the breath ; 
And the silence and the chill around 

Were e'en like those of death. 
94 



THE FROZEN SHIP. 

Colder and colder grew the air, 
Spell-bound seem'd the wave to be, 

And ere night fell, they knew they were lock'd 
In the arms of that icy aea. 

Stiff lay the sail, chain-like the ropea, 

And snow pass'd o'er the main ; 
Each thought, but none spoke, of distant hums 

They never should see again. 

Bach look'd upon his comrade's face, 

Pale as funereal stone ;. 
Yet none could touch the other's hand, 

For none could feel his own. 

Like statues fix'd, that gallant band 

Stood on the dread deck to die ; 
The sleet was their shroud, the wind their dirge, 

And their churchyard the sea and the sky. 

Fond eyes watch'd by then: native shore, 
And prayers to the wild winds gave ; 

But never again came that stately ship 
To breast the English wave^ 

Hope grew fear, and fear grew hope. 

Till both alike were done : 
And the bride lay down in her grave alone, 

And the mother without her son. 

Years pass'd, and of that goodly ship 

Nothing of tidings came ; 
Till, in £ifter-time, when her fate had grown 

But a tale of fear and a name- 
It was beneath a tropic sky 

The tale was told to me ; 
The sailor who told, in his youth had been 

Over that icy sea. 



landon's poems. 

He Baid it was fearful to see them suad, 

Nor the living, nor yet the dead, 
And the light glared strange in the ^liwsy eyes 

Whose human look was fled. 

For frost had done one-half life's part, 

And kept them from decay ; 
Those they loved had moulder'd, but tbvea 

Look'd the dead of yesterday. 

Peace to the souls of the graveless dead ! 

'Twas an awful doom to dree; 
But fearfu. and wondrous are thy works 

O God . in the boundless sea ! 



THE NAMELESS GRAVE. 

A NAMELESS grave, — there is no stoije 

To sanctify the dead : 
O'er it the willow droops alone. 

With only wild flowers spread. 

" O, there is nought to interest here, 

No record of a name, 
A trumpet call upon the ear, 

High on the roll of fame. 

" I will not pause beside a tomb 
Where nothing calls to mind 

Aught that can brighten mortal gloom, 
Or elevate mankind ;— 

" No glorious memory to efface 

The stay of meaner clay ; 
No intellect whose heavenly trace 

Redeem'd our earth : — away !" 
96 



THE NAMELESS GEAVE. 

Ah, these are thoughts that well may rise 

On youth's ambitious pride; 
But I will sit and moralize 

This lowly stone beside. 

Here thousands might have slept, whose nama 

Had been to thee a spell, 
To light thy flashing eyes with flame, — 

To bid thy young heart swell. 

Here might have been a warrior's rest, 

Some chief who bravely bled. 
With waving banner, sculptured crest, 

And laurel on his head. 

That laurel must have had its blood, 
That blood have caused its tear,-— 

Look on the lovely sohtude— 
What ! wish for warfare here ! 

A poet might have slept, — what ! he 
Whose restless heart fii'st wakes 

Its life-pulse into melody, 
Then o'er it pines and breaks ?— 

He who hath sung of passionate love, 

His life a feverish tale : — 
! not the nightingale, the dove 

Would suit its quiet vale. 

See, I have named your favourite two,—* 

Each had been glad to crave 
Rest 'neath this turfs unbroken dew, 

And such a nameless grave . 
9 97 



REVENGE. 

At, gaze opon her rose-wreath'd hak. 

And gaze upon her smile : 
Seem as you drank the very air 

Her breath perfaraed the while ; 

And -wake for her the gifted Une, 
That wild and witching lay, 

And swear your heart is as a shrine. 
That only owns her sway. 

'Tis well : I am revenged at last, — 
Mark you that scornful cheek,— 

The eye averted as you pass'd. 
Spoke more than words could speak. 

Ay, now by all the bitter tears. 
That I have shed for thee, — 

The racking doubts, the burning feara,- 
Avenged they well may be — 

By the nights pjss'd in sleepless car®, 

The days of endless wo ; 
All that you taught my heart to bear, 

All that yourself wiD know. 

I would not wish to see you laid 

Within an early tomb ; 
I should forget how you betray' d, 

And only weep your doom : 

But this is fitting punishment 
To Uve and love in vain, — 

O my wrung heart, be thou content. 
And feed upon his pain. 
98 



A SUMMER DAY. 

Go thou and watch her Kghteet sigh, 

Thine own it will not be ; 
And back beneath her sunny eye,— 

It will not turn on thee. 

'Tis well : the rack, the chain, the wheeJ, 
Far better hadst thou proved ; 

Ev'n I could almost pity feel, 
For thou art not beloved. 



A SUMMER DAY. 

Sweet valley, whose streams flow as spark- 
ling and bright 
^s the stars that descend in the depths of tha 

night ; 
Whose violets fling their rich breath in the £ur, 
Sweet spendthrifts of treasui'e the Spring has 
flung there. 

My lot is not with thee, 'tis far from thina 

own; 
Nor thus, amid Summer and solitude thrown ; 
But still it is something to gaze upon thee, 
And bless earth, that such peace on her bosoir. 

can be. 

My heart and my steps both grow light as 1 

bound 
O'er the green grass that covers thy beautiild 

ground; 
And joy o'er my thoughts, like the sun o'er the 

leaves, 
A blessing in giving and taking receives. 

I have heap'd up thy flowers, the wild and the 

sweet, 
As if fresh from the touch of the night-elfin's 

feet; 

99 



landon's poems. 

A bough from thy oalt, and a sprig from tny 

broom, — 
I take them as keepsakes to tell of thy bloom. 

Their green leaves may droop, and their colours 

may flee, 
As if dying with sorrow at parting from thee ; 
And my memory fade with them, till thou Avilt 

but seem 
Like the flitting shape morning recalls of a 

dream. 

Let them fade from their freshness, so leave 

they behind 
One trace, like faint music, impress'd on the 

mind : 
One leaf or one flower to memory will bring 
The light of thy beauty, the hope of thy spring. 



CAN YOU FORGET MEI 

Caw you forget me ? — ^I who have so cherish'd 

The veriest trifle that was memory's link ; 
The roses that you gave me, although perish'd. 

Were precious in my sight ; they made me 
think. 
You took them in their scentless beauty stooping 

From the warm shelter of the garden wall ; 
Autumn, while into languid winter drooping, 

Gave its last blossoms, opening but to fall. 
Can you forget them ! 

Can you forget me ? I am not relying 

On plighted vows — alas ! I know their worth : 
Man's faith to woman is a trifle, dying 

Upon the very breath that gave it birth. 
But I remember hours of quiet gladness, 

When, if the heart had truth, it spoke it then, 
When thoughts would sometimes take a tone oi 
sadness, 

100 



CAN YOU FOKGET ME? 

And then unconsciously grow glad again. 
Can you forget them * 
Can you forget me ? My whole soul waa 
blended ; 
At least it sought to blend itself with thine ; 
My Ufe's whole purpose, winning thee, seem'd 
ended ; 
Thou wert my heart's sweet home — my 
spirit's shrine. 
Can you forget me ? — when the firelight burning, 
Flung sudden gleams around the quiet room, 
How would thy words, to long past moments 
turning, 
Trust me with thoughts soft as the shadowy 
gloom ! 

Can you forget them t 

There is no truth in love, whate'er its seeming, 
And heaven itself could scarcely seem more 
true — 
Sadly have I awaken' d from the dreaming, 
Whose charm' d slumber — false one ! — was 
of you. 
[ gave mine inmost being to thy keeping — 
I had no thought I did not seek to share ; 
Feelings that hush'd within my soul wero 
sleeping, 
Waked into voice, to trust them to thy care. 
Can you forget them ? 

Can you forget me ? This is vainly tasking 
The faithless heart where I, alas ! am not. 
Too well I know the idleness of asking — 
The misery^of why am I forgot ? 
The happy hours that I have pass'd while 
kneeling 
Half slave, half child, to. gaze upon thy face. 
—But what to thee this passionate appealing — 
Let my heart break — it is a common case. 
You have forgotten mo. 
9* 101 



DR. MORRISON AND HIS CHINESE 
ATTENDANTS. 

Thev bend above the page with anxious eyes, 
Devoutly listening to sacred words 
Which have awaken'd all the spirit-chords 

Whose music dwells in the eternal skies. 

And still their teacher hope and aid supplies. 

For those dark priests are God's own messen. 
gers. 
To bring their land glad tidings from above, 

And to the creed that in its darkness errs, 
To teach the words of truth and Christian 
love. 

Blessings be on their pathway, and increase I 
These are the moral conquerors, and belong 
To them the palm-branch and triumphal 
song- 
Conquerors, and yet the harbmgers of peace. 



THE WREATH. 

Nay, fling not down those faded flowers, 
Too late they're scatter' d round ; 

And violet and rose-leaf lie 
Together on the ground. 

How carefully this very morn 

Those buds were cuU'd and wreath'd, 
And, 'mid the cloud of that dark hair. 

How sweet a sigh they breathed ! 
102 



THE WREATH. 

And many a gentle word was said 

Above their morning dye, 
How that the rose had touch' d thy cheek, 

The violet thine eye. 

Methinks, if but for memory, 
I should have kept these flowers ; 

Ah ! all too lightly does thy heart 
Dwell upon vanish' d hours. 

Already has thine eager hand 
Stripp'd yonder rose-hung bough ; 

The wreath that bound thy raven curls 
Thy feet are on it now. 

That glancing smile, it seems to say 

" Thou art too fanciful ; 
What matters it what roses fade. 

While there are more to cull ! 

Ay, I was wrong to ask of thee 
Such gloomy thoughts as mine : 

Thou in thy Spring, how shouldst thou dream 
Of Autumn's pale decline ? 

Voung, lovely, loved, — ! far from thee 

Life's after-dearth and doom; 
>ong ere thou learn how memory clings 

To even faded bloom ! 
103 



THE DYING CHILD. 



The woman was in abject misery — that worst of 
poverty, which is haunted by shame— the only relic 
left by better days. She shrunk from all efforts al 
recovery, refused to administer the medicines, and 
spoke of the child's death but as a blessing. 

My God ! and is the daily page of life 
Darken'd with wretchedness like this. 



Hek cheek is flush'd with fever red ; 

Her little hand burns in my own ; 
Alas ! and does'pain rack her sleep f 

Speak ! for I cannot bear that moan. 

Y"et, Sleep. I do not wish to look 
Again within those languid eyes ; 

Sleep, though again the heavy lash 
May never from their beauty rise. 

—Aid, hope for me ? — now hold thy peace, 
And take that healing cup away , 

Life, length of life, to that poor child ! — 
It is not Ufe for which I pray. 

Why should she Uve for pain, for toil. 
For wasted frame and broken heart. 

Till life has only left, in death, 
With its base fear of death to part '. 

How could I bear to see her youth 
BoW'd to the dust by abject toil, 

Till misery urge the soul to giult, 
From which its nature would recoil ? 
104 



THE GANGES. 

The bitterness of poverty, 

The shame that adds the worst to wo,— 
1 think upon the Ufe I've known. 

Upon the life that I shall know. 

Lojk through yon street, — a hundred lamps 
Are hghting up the revels there, — 
- Hark ! you can hear the distant laugh 
Blending with music on the air. 

The rich dwell there, who know not want ; 

Whp loathe that wretchedness whose name 
Is there an unfamiHar sound :— 

Why is not my estate the same ? 

I may have sinn'd, and punishment 
For that most ignorant sin incur ; 

But be the curse upon my head,— 
O, let it not descend to her ! 

Sleep, dear one ! 'tis a weary world ; 

Sleep the sweet slumber of the grave 
Vex me no more with thy vain words : - 

What worth is that you seek to save ? 

Tears — ^tears — ^I shame that I should Aveep ; 

I thought my heart had nerved my eye ;— 
f should be thankfial, and I will, — 

Therj, there, my child, lie down and die ! 



THE GANGES. 

Oh sweeps the mighty river — calmly flowing, 
Through the eternal flowers 
That light the summer hours, 

Year after year, perpetual in their blowing. 
105 



landon's poems. 

Over the myriad plains that current ranges, 

Itself as clear and bright 

As in its earliest light, 
And yet the mirror of perpetual changes. 

Here must have ceased the echo of those 
slaughters, 
When stopp'd the onward jar 
Of Macedonian war, 
Whose murmur only reach' d thy ancient 
waters. 

Vet have they redden'd with the fierce out. 
pouring 

Of human blood and life, 

When over kingly strife 
The vulture on his fated -wmg was soaring. 

How oft its watch, impatient of the morrow, 

Hath mortal misery kept, 

Beside thy banks, and wept, 
Kissing thy quiet night winds with their sor- 
row I 

Yet thou art on thy course majestic keeping, 

Unruffled by the breath 

Of man's vain life or death, 
Calm as the heaven upon thy bosom sleeping. 

Still dost thou keep thy calm and onward 
motion. 

Amid the ancient ranks 

Of forests on thy banks, 
Till thou hast gain'd thy home— the mighty 



And thou dost scatter benefits around thee : 

Thy silver current yields 

Life to the green rice-fields, 
That have like an enchanted girdle bound tliee. 
106 



TBE GANGES, 

By thee are royal gardens, each j)ossessuig 

A summer in its hues, 

Whicii still thy wave renews, 
Where'er thou flowest dost thou bear a blessing- 
Such, O my country ! should be thy advanc- 
ing — 

A glorious progress knovm 

As is that river's, shown 
By the glad sunshine on its waters glancing. 

So should thy moral light be onwards flowing— 

So should its course be bound 

By benefits around. 
The blessings which itself hath known bestow- 
ing, 

Faith— commerce — kncrwledge — law — thoss 
should be springing, 
Where'er thy standard flies 
Amid the azure skies. 
Whose highest gifts that red- cross flag is bring- 
ing. 

Already much for man has been effected ; 

The weak and poor man's cause 

Is strengthen'd by the laws. 
The equal right, bom with us, all respected. 

But much awaits, England ! thy redressing ; 

Thou hast no nob/er guide 

Than yon bright river's tide : 
Bear as that bears — where'er thou goest, bless- 
ing!* 

. • Will General Pagan permit me to quote an ex- 
pression of bis which struck me most forcibly 1 

"We have," said he, "been the conquerors o} 
India : we have now to be its benefactors, its legk- 
ators, Jta instructors, and its libeTators." 
107 



THE MINSTREL'S MONITOR. 

Silent and dark as the source of yon river, 
Whose birth-place we know not, and seek not 
to know, 
Though wild as the flight of the shaft from yon 
quiver, 
Is the course of its waves as in music they flow. 

The lily flings o'er it its silver white blossom. 
Like ivory barks which a fairy hath made ; 

The rose o'er it bends with its beautiful bosom, 
As though 'twere enamour'd itself of its 
shade. 

The sunshine, like Hope, in its noondde hour 
slumbers 
On the stream, as it loved the bright place of 
its rest ; 
And its waves pass in song, as the sea shell's soft 
numbers 
Had given to those waters their sweetest and 
best. 

The banks that surround it are flower-dropt and 
sunny ; 
There the first birth of violets' odour-showers 
weep- 
There the bee heaps his earliest treasures of 
honey, 
Or sinks in the depths of the harebell to sleep. 

Like prisoners escaped during night from their 
prison, 
The waters fling gaily their spray to the sun ; 
108 



ST. JOHN IN THE WILDERNESS. 

Who can tell me from whence that glad river 
has risen ! 
Who can say whence it springs in its beauty f 
— not one. 

O my heart, and my song, which is as my 
heart's flowing. 
Read thy fete in yon river, for such is thine 
ownl 
'Mid those the chief praise on thy music be- 
stowing, 
Who cares for the lips from whence issue 
the tone 1 

Dark as its birth-place so dark is my spirit, 
Whence yet the sweet waters of melody 

came : 
'Tia the long after-course, not the source, will 

inherit 
The beauty and glory of sunshine and fame. 



ST. JOHN IN THE WILDERNESS. 



"And the same John had hid raiment of camel'a 
Qair, and a leathern girdle about his loins, and ht» 
meat was locusts and wild honey." 

St. Matthew lii. 4 



Afar, he took a gloomy cave, 
For his accustomed dwelling-place, 

As dark, as silent as the grave, 
As unfamiliar with man's face ; 

rte stern and knotted trees grew round, * 
Blasted, and desolate, and gray, 

And 'mid their sullen depths was found 
A home for birds and beasts of prey. 
10 109 



liANDON'a POEMS, 

Morning broke joyless, for the land 
Knew no green grass, nor fragrant flower, 

The barren rock, the burning sand, 
Bless'd not the sunshine, nor the shower. 

Y"et there the prophet dwelt alone, 
Far from the city and the plain ; 

For him in vara their glory shone, 
For him their beauty spread in vain. 

He left his youth and life behind ; 

Each idol of the human heart, 
Pleasures and vanities resign' d, 

Content to choose the better part. 

Methinks, when hope is cold or weak, 
And prayers seem but unwelcome tasks. 

And worldly thoughts and feelings seek 
To fill the hours religion asks ; 

If, when the light of faith is dim, 
The spirit would but ponder thus— • 

How mugh there was required of him, 
How little is required of us I 

All-Merciful, did we declare. 
The glories which to Thee belong. 

All life would pass in thankful prayei 
All breathe in one triumphant song. 
110 



THE NATIVITY. 

"Lo, the star which they saw in the east, went 
before them, till it came and stood over where the 
young child was." 

" When they saw the star, they rejoiced with ex- 
ceeding great joy." 

" And when they were come into the house, they 
saw the young child, with Mary his mother, and fell 
down and worshipped him." 

St Matthew ii. 9 — 1!. 

Far in the desert east it shone, 
A guiding-star, and only one ; 
The other planets left the sky, 
Trembling, as if rebuked on high. 
The moon forsook her silvery height, 
Abash' d before that hoUer light : 
The storm clouds that on ether lay 
Melted before its glorious ray ; 
Till half the heaven shone pure and clear, 
Like some diviner atmosphere 
Than ours, where heavy vapours rise 
From the vile earth, to dim the skies ; 

Meet herald of that promised day. 
When soul shall burst the bond of clay. 
And, purified from earth-stains come. 
Radiant to its eternal home. 
On roU'd the star, nor paused to shed 
Its glory o'er the mountain's head, 
Whereon the morning simshine fell. 
Where eve's last crimson loved to dwell ; 
The gilded roof, the stately fane. 
The garden, nor the corn-hid plain. 
The camp, where red watch-fires were keeping 
Guard o'er a thousand soldiers sleeping. 
But temple, palace, city past, 
111 



landon's poems. 

That si^r paused in the sky at last. 

It pr' ,a where, roused from slumbers mild. 

Lay 'mid the kine a newborn child. 

Are there no clarions upon earth 
To tell mankind their monarch's birth.? 
Are there no banners to unfold, 
Heavy with purple and with gold ? 
Are there no flowers to strew the ground, 
Nor arches with the palm-branch bound ! 
Nor fires to kindle on the hill ? 
No ! man is mute— the world is still. 
£11 would all earthly pomp agree 

With this hour's mild solemnity ; 
The tidings which that infant brings, 
Are not for conquerors nor for kings ; 
Nor for the sceptre, nor the brand. 
For crowned head, nor red right hand. 
But to the contrite and the meek, 
The sinfii'., sorrowful, and weak : 
Or those who, with a hope sublime, 
Are waiting for the Lord's good time. 
Only for those the angels sing, 
"AH glory to our newborn King, 
A'id peace and good-will unto men, 
Rosanna to our God ! Amen." 



THE SNOWDROP, 

Thou beautiful new comer. 

With white and maiden brow ; 
Thou fairy gift from summer. 

Why art thou blooming now ? 
This dim and shelter' d alley 

Is dark with winter green ; 
Not such as in the valley 

At sweet spring time is seen. 
112 






THE SNOW DEOP. 

The lime tree's tender yellow, 

The aspen's silvery sheen, 
With mingling colours mellow 

The universal green. 
Now solemn yews are bending 

'Mid gloomy fires around ; 
And in long dark wreaths descending. 

The ivy sweeps the ground. 

No sweet companion pledges 

Thy health as dewdrops pass ; 
No rose is on the hedges, 

No violet in the grass. 
Thou art watching, and thou only, 

Above the earth's snow tomb ; 
Thus lovely, and thus lonely, 

I bless thee for thy bloom. 

Though the singing rill be frozen, 
While the wind forsakes the west , 

Though the singing birds have chosen 

- Some lone and silent rest ; 

Like thee, one sweet thought lingers 
In a heart else cold and dead, 

Though the summer's flowers, and singers, 
And sunshine, long hath fledi 

Tis the love for long years cherish'd, 

Yet lingermg, lorn, and lone ; 
Though its lovelier lights have perish'd 

And its earlier hopes are flown. 
Though a weary world hath boimd it. 

With many a heavy thrall ; 
And the cold and changed surround it, 
It blossoraeth o'er all. 
10* 113 



THE INDIAN GIRL 

She sat alone beside her hearth— 

For many nights alone ; 
She slept not on the pleasant couch 

Where fragrant herbs were strown. 

At first she bound her raven hair 

With feather and with shell ; 
But then she hoped; at length, like night, 

Around her neck it fell. 

They saw her wandering 'mid the woods^, 
Lone, with the cheerless dawn. 

And then they said, " Can this be her 
We call'd ' The Startled Fawn.' " 

Her heart was in her large sad eyes. 

Half sunshine and half shade ; 
And love, as love first springs to life, 

Of every thing afraid. 

The red leaf far more heavily 

Fell down to autumn earth, 
Than her light feet, which seem'd to move 

To music and to mirth. 

With the light feet of early youth. 

What hopes and joys depart ! 
Ah ! nothing like the heavy step 

Betrays the heavy heart. 

It is a usual history 

That Indian girl could tell , 
Fate sets apart one common doom 

For all who love too well. 
114 



THE INDIAN GIEL. 

The proud — the shy — the sensitive, 

Life has not many such ; 
They dearly buy their happiness, 

By feeUng it too much. 

A stranger to her forest home, 

That fair young stranger came 
They raised for him the funeral song— * 

For him the funeral flame. 

Love sprang from pity,- — and her arms 

Around his arms she threw ; 
She told her father, " If he dies, 

Your daughter dieth too." 

For her sweet sake they set him free— 

.He linger' d at her side ; 
And many a native song yet tells 

Of that pale stranger's bride. 

Two years have pass'd^how much two years 

Have taken in their flight J 
They've taken from the lip its smile. 

And from the eye its light. 

Poor child ! she was a child in years — 

So timid and so young ; 
With what a fond and earnest faith 

To desperate hope she clung ! 

His eyes grew cold — ^his voice grew strange— 

They only grew more dear. 
She served him meekly, anxiously. 

With love — half faith, half fear. 

And can a fond and faithful heart 

Be worthless in those eyes 
For which it beats ? — Ah t wo to those 

Who such a heart despise. 
115 



landon's poems. 

Poor child ! what lonely days she pass'd, 

With nothing to recall 
But bitter taunts, and careless words, 

And looks more cold than all. 

Alas ! for love, that sits at home, 

Forsaken, and yet fond ; 
Th^ grief that sits beside the hearth, 

Life has no grief beyond. 

He left hei, but she foUow'd him — 

She thought he could not bear 
When she had left her home for him 

To look on her despair. 

Adown the strange and mighty stream 

She took her lonely way ! 
The stars at night her pilots were. 

As was the sun by day. 

yet moumftilly — ^how mournfully !— 

The Indian look'd behind, 
When-the last sound of voice or step 

Died on the midnight wuid. 

Yet still adown the gloomy stream 

She plied her weary oar ; 
Her husband — he had left then: home, 

And it was home no more. 

She found him — ^but she found in vain — 

He spurn' d her from his side ; 
He said, her brow was all too dark, 

For her to be his bride. 

She grasp'd his hands, — ^her own were colJ, 

And silent turn' d away. 
As she had not a tear to shed, 

And not a word to say. 
116 



^n 



KAIiENDEIA. 

And pale as death she reach'd her boat. 

And giiided it along ; 
With broken voice she strove to nuse 

A melancholy song. 

None watch'd the lonely Indian girl, — 

She pass'd unmark'd of all, 
Until they saw her slight canoe 

Approach the mighty Fall !* 

Upright, within that slender boat 
They saw the pale girl stand, 

Her dark hair streaming far behind — 
Upraised her desperate hand. 

The air is fill'd with shriek and shout— 
They call, but call in vain ; 

The boat amid the waters dash'd— 
'Twas never seen again. 



KALENDRIA; 

A PORT IN CILICIA. 

Do you see yon vessel riding, 

Anchor' d in our island bay, 
Like a sleeping sea-bird biding 

For the morrow's onward way 1 
See her white wings folded round her 

As she rocks upon the deep ; 
Slumber with a spell hath bound her, 

With a spell of peace and sleep. 

Seems she not as if enchanted 
To that lone and lovely place, 

Henceforth ever to be haunted 
By that sweet ship's shadowy grace. 

* Niagara. 

iir 



landon's poems. 

Yet, come here again to-morrow, 

Not a vestige will remain, 
Though these sweet eyes strain in sorrow, 

They will search the sea in vain. 

'Twas for this I bade thee meet me, 
For a partmg word and tear ; 

Other lands and Ups may greet me ; 
None will ever seem so dear. 

Other lands — I may say, other- 
Mine again I shall not see ; 

I have left mine aged mother, 
She has other sons than me. 

Where my father's bones are lying. 

There mine own will never he ; 
Where the myrtle groves are sighing, 

Soft beneath our summer sky. 
Mine will be a wilder ending, 

Mine will be a wilder grave. 
Where the shriek and shout are blending, 

Or the tempest sweeps the wave. 

Mine may be a fate more lonely. 

In some sick and foreign ward. 
Where my weary eyes meet only 

Hired nurse or sullen guard. 
Dearest maiden, thou art weeping : 

Must I from those eyes remove ? 
Hath thy heart no soft pulse sleeping 

Which might ripen into love ? 

No ! I see thy brow is frozen. 

And thy look is cold and strange ; 
Ah ! when once the heart has chosen. 

Well I know it cannot change. 
And I know that heart has spoken 

That another's it must be. 
Scarce I wish that pure faith broken, 

Though the falsehood were for me. 
118 



INFANTICIDE IN MADAGASCAB. 

No t be Still the guileless creature 

That upon my boyhood shone ; 
Couldst thou change thy angel naturej 

Half my faith in heaven were gone. 
Still thy memory shall be cherish'd, 

Dear as it is now to n^e ; 
When all gentler thoughts have perish' di 

One shall linger yet for thee. 

Farewell ! — With those words I sever 

Every tie of youth and home ; 
Thou, fair isle ! adieu for ever I 

See, a boat cuts thTOugh the foam. 
Wind, time, tide, alike are pressing, 

I must hasten from the shore. 
One first kiss, and one last blessing— 

Faxewell, love ! we meet no mors. 



INFANTICIDE IN MADAGASCAR. 

A LUXURY of summer green 

Is on the southern plain. 
And water-flags, with dewy screen, 

Protect the ripening grain. 
Upon the sky ig not a cloud 

To mar the golden glow, 
Only the palm-tree is allow'd 

To fling its shade below. 

And silvery, 'mid its fertile brakes, 

The winding river gUdes, 
And every ray in heaven makes 

Its mirror of its tides. 
And yet it is a place of death — 

A place of sacrifice ; 
Heavy with childhood's parting breath, 

Weary with childhood's cries. 
119 



LAND^-ON'S POEMi. 

The mother takes her little child-* 
ItB face ia Uke her own ; 

The cradle of her choice is wild- 
Why is it left alone ? 

The trampling of the bnffalo 

Is heard among the reedg, 
And sweeps around the carrion crow 

That amid carnage feeds. 

O ! outrage upon mother Earth 

To yonder azure sky ; 
A destined victim from its birth 

The child ia left to die. 
We shudder that such crimes disgracs 

E'en yonder savage strand ; 
Alas ! and hath such crime no trace 

Within our English land ? 

Pause, ere we blame the savage codo 

That such strange horror keeps ; 
Perhaps within her sad abode 

The mother sits and weeps, 
And thinks how oft those eyelids smil'd, 

Whose close she may not see, 
And says, " O , would to God, my child, 

I might have died for thee !" 

Such law of bloodshed to annul 

Should be the Christian's toil ; 
May not such law be merciful, 

To that upon our soil ? 
Better the infant eyes should close 

Upon the first sweet breath, 
Than weary for their last repose, 

A living life in death ! 

Look on the children of our poof, 

On many an English child : 
Better that it had died secure 

By yonder river wild. 
120 



ALEXANDER «.ND PHILIP. 

Flung careless on the waves of life, 
From childhood's earliest time, 

They struggle, one perpetual strife, 
With hunger and with crime. 

Look on the crowded prison-gate— 

Instructive love and care 
In early Ufe had saved the fate 

That waits on many there. 
Cold, selfish, shunning care and co^ 

The poor are left unknown ; 
I say, for every soul thus lost. 

We answer with our own. 



ALEXANDER AND PHILIP. 

He stood by the river's side 
A conqueror and a king. 
None match' d his step of pride 
Amid the armed ring. 
And a heavy echo rose from the ground, 
As a thousand warriors gather' d round. 

And the morning march had been long, 

And the noontide sun was high. 
And weariness bow'd down the strong, ^ 
And heat closed every eye ; 
And the victor stood by the river's brim 
Whose coolness seem'd but made for hihi. 

The cypress spread their gloom 

Like a cloak from the noontide beam, 
He flung back his dusty plume, 
And plunged in the silver stream ; 
He plunged like the young steed, fierce and w M, 
He was borne away like the feeble child. 
11 121 



landon's poems. 

They took the king to his tent 
From the river's fatal banks, 
A cry of terror went 
Like a storm through the Grecian ranks s 
Was this the fruit of their glories won, 
Was this the death for Ammon's son f 

Many a leech heard the call. 

But each one shrank away ; 
For heavy upon all 

Was the weight of fear that day : 
When a thought of treason, a word of death, 
Was in each eye and on each breath. 

But one with the royal youth 

Had been from his earliest hour. 
And he knew that his heart was truth, 
And he knew that his hand was power ; 
He gave what hope his skill might give, 
And bade him trust to his faith and live. 

Alexander took the cup, 

And from beneath his head a scroll. 
He drank the liquor up, 

And bade Philip read the roll ; 
And Philip look'd on the page, where sham* 
Treason, and poison were named with his namt 

An angry flush rose on his brow, 

And anger darken'd his eye. 
What I have done I would do again now ! 
If you trust my fidelity. 
The king watch'd his face, he felt he might dsia 
Trust the faith that was written there. 

Next day the conqueror rose 

From a greater conqueror free ; 
And again he stood amid those 
Who had died his death to see : , 
He stood there proud of the lesson he gave 
That faith and trust were made for the brava 
122 





THB 




SULTANA'S REMONSTRANCE. 




It suits thee well to weep, 




As thou lookest on the fair land, 




'¥hose sceptre thou hast held 




Whh less than woman's hand. 




On yon bright city gaze. 




With its white and marble balls, 




The glory of its lofty towers, 


• 


The strength of its proud walla. 

1 




And look to yonder palace. 




With its garden of the rose. 




With its groves and silver fountainfi, > 




Fit for a king's repose. 




There is weeping in that city. 




And a cry of wo and shame, 




There's a whisper of dishonour, 




And that whisper is thy name. 




And the stranger's feast is spread, 




But it is no feast of thine ; 




In thine own halls accursed lipa 




Drain the forbidden wine. 




And aged men are in the streets, 




Who mourn theh length of days, 




And young knights stand with folded arms 




And eyes they dare not raise. 




123 



landon's poems. 

There k not one whose blood was not 
As the waves of ocean free— 

Their fathers died for thy fathers, 
They would have died for thee. 

Weep not, 'tis mine to weep 

That ever thou wert born ; 
Alas, that all a mother's love 

Is lost in a queen's scorn ! 

Yet weep, thou less than woman, weep» 
Those tears become thine eye,— • 

It suits thee well to weep the land 
For which thou daisest not die.* 



HANNIBAL'S OATH. 

And the night was dark and calm, 

There was not a breath of air, 
The leaves of the grove were still, 

As the presence of death were there; 

Only a moaning sound 

Came from the distant sea, 
It was as if, hke life 

It had no tranquillity. 

A warrior and a child 

Pass'd through the sacred wood, 
Which, like a mystery, 

Around the temple stood. 

The warrior's brow was worn 

With the weight of casque tod plume, 

And sunburnt was bis cheek, 
And his eye and brow were gloom. 

* These lines allude to the flight of the last king o» 
Grenada. 

124 



THE RECORD. 

The child was young and fair, 
But the forehead large and high. 

And the dark eyes' flashing light 
Seem'd to feel their destiny. 

They enter'd in the temple, 
And stood before the shrine, 

It stream'd with the victim's blood. 
With incense and with wine. 

The ground rock'd beneath their feet 
The thunder shook the dome, 

But the boy stood firm, and swore 
Eternal hate to Rome. 

There's a page in history 

O'er which tears of blood were wept, 
And that page is the record 

How that oath of hate was kept. 



THE RECC RD. 

He sleeps, his head upon his sword, 

His soldier's cloak a shroud ; 
His churchyard is the open field, — 

Three times it has been plough' d: 

The first time that the wheat sprang up 

'Twas black as if with blood, 
The meanest beggar turn'd away 

From the imholy food. 

1 he third year, and the grun grew fair, 

As it was wont to wave ; 
None would have thought that golden corn 

Was growing on the grave. 
11* 126 



landon's poems 

His lot was but a peasant's lot, 

His name a peasant's name, 
Not his the place of death that turha 

Into a place of fame. 

He fell as other thousands do. 
Trampled down where they fall. 

While on a single name is heap'd 
The glory gain'd by all. 

Yet even he whose conimon grave 

Lies in the open fields, 
Died not without a thought of all 

The joy that glory yields. 

That small white church in his own land, 

The liine trees almost hide. 
Bears on the walls the names of thesis 

Who for their country died. 

His name is written on those walls, 

His mother read it there. 
With pride, — O ! no, there could not be 

Pride in the widow's prayer. 

And many a stranger who shall mark 

That peasant roll of fame, 
Will think on prouder ones, yet say 

This was a hero's name. 



CORFU. 

0, LOVELY isle ! that, like a child, 

Art sleeping on the sea. 
Amid whose hair the wind is wild. 
And on whose cheek the sun has smiled 

As there it loved to be. 
126 



COKFU. 

How fair thou art, how very fair, 

A lone and lovely dream, 
That sprung on the enchanted air, 
A. fairy likeness seems to wear, 

A fairy world to seem. 

Thou bringest to me a pleasant mood 

Of feincifiil deUght : 
To me thou art a solitude 
Known only to the sea bird's brood. 

And to the stars at night. 

I should so like to have thee mine, 

Mine own — my very own, 
The shadows of thy sweeping vine, 
Wherein the scarlet creepers twine, 

Broken by me alone. 

I would not have a footstep trace 

Thy solitary shore : 
No human voice — no human face 
Should trouble my sweet resting place 

With memories of yore. 

A would forget the wretched years 

Pass'd in this world of ours, 
Where weary cares and feverish fears 
Ending aUke in bitter tears, 

Darken the heavy hours. 

But I would dwell beside the sea. 

And of the scatter' d shells ^ 

Ask, when they murmur mournfully, 
What sorrow in the past may be, 

Of which their music tells. 

Winds, waves, and breathmg shells are sad— 

Methinks I should repine, 
If their low tones were only glad, 
'T would seem too much as if they had 

No sympathy for mine. 
127 



landon's poems. 

Not long such fancies can beguile 

Dreams of what cannot be ; 
Gone is thy visionary smile, 
And thou art but a distant isle 
Upon a distant sea. 



THE CASTLE OF CHILLON. 

Fair lake, thy lovely and thy haunted shore 

Has only echoes for the poet's lute ; 

None may tread there save with unsandall'd 
foot, 
Submissive to the great that went before, 
Fill'd with the mighty memories of yore. 

And yet how moumfiil are the records 
there — 

Captivity, and exile, and despair, 
Did they endure who now endure no more. 

The patriot, the woman, and the bard, 
Whose names thy winds and waters bear along ; 

What did the world bestow for their reward 
But suffering, sorrow, bitterness, and wrong ?— 

Genius ! — a hard and weary lot is thine — 

The heart thy fuel — and the grave thy 
shrine. 



THE RIVER WEAR. 

Come back, come back, my childhood, 

To the old familiar spot, 
Whose wild flowers, and whose wild wood 

Have never been forgot. 
It is the shining river. 

With the bulrush by its tide. 

Where I fill'd my green rush quiver 

With arrows at its side ; 
128 



THE EIVER WEAB. 

And deem'd that knightly glories 

Were honour' d as of old, 
My head was fill'd with stories 

My aged nurse had told. 
The Douglas and the Percy 

AUke were forced to yield ; 
I had but little mercy 

Upon the battle field. 

Ah ! folly of the fancies, 

That haunt our childhood's hour, 
Arid yet those old romances 

On after hfe have power, 
When the weight appears too weary 

With which we daily strive, 
'Mid the actual and the dreary, 

How much they keep aUve ! 

How often, amid hours 

By life severely tried. 
Have I thought on those wild flowers 

On the sweet Wear's silver tide. 
Each ancient recollection 

Brought something to subdue ; 
1 lived in old affection. 

And felt the heart was true. 

I am come again vidth summer. 

It is lovely to behold. 
Will it welcome the new comer, 

As it seem'd to do of old ? 
Within those dark green covers, 

Whose shade is downward cast, 
How many a memory hovers 

Whose Ught is from the past ! 

I see the bright trout springing, 
Where the wave is dark yet clear. 

And a myriad flies are wingino-, 
As if to tempt him near. 
129 



LANDON S POEMS, 

With the lucid waters blending, 
The willow shade yet floats, 

From beneath whose quiet bending 
I used to launch my boats. 

Over the sunny meadows, 

I watch them as of old. 
Flit soft and sudden shadows 

That leave a greener gold. 
And a faint south wind is blowing 

Amid the cowslip beds, 
A deeper glow bestowing 

To the hght ai'ound their heads. 

Farewell, sweet river ! ever 

Wilt thou be dear to me ; 
I can repay thee never 

One half I owe to thee. 
Around thy banks are lying 

Nature's diviner part. 
And thou dost keep undying 

My childhood at my heart. 



DEATH OF LOUIS OF BOURBON. 

BISHOP OF LIEGE. 

How actual, through the lapse of years. 
That scene of death and dread appears, 
The maiden shrouded in her veil. 
The burghers half resolved, half pale; 
And the young archer leant prepared. 
With dagger hidden, but still bared — 
Are real, as if that stormy scene 
In our own troubled Ufe had been. 
Such is the magic of the page 
That brings again another age. 
Suchi Scott, the charms thy pages cast, 
O, mighty master of the past ! 
130 



THE PROPHETESS. 

In the deep silence of the midnight hours, 
I call upon ye, O ye viewless powers, 
Before whose presence mortal daring cowers. 

I have subdued ye to my own stem will, 
I fear ye not ; but I must shudder still, 
Faint with the awful purpose ye fulfiL 

Not for myself I call the ether-born, 

They have no boon my being doth not scorn-~ 

Wholly and bitterly am I forlorn. 

Dearly is bought the empire of the mind j 
It sitteth on a sullen throne, designed 
To elevate and part it from its kind. 

Long years my stricken soul has turn'd away 
From the sweet dreams that round my child- 
hood lay : 
Would it still own'd their false but lovely sway 

In the dark grave of unbeliei they rest, 
Worthless they were, and hollow, while possesl. 
I am alone — unblessing, and unblest ! 

Knowledge is with me — guest that once re- 
ceived, 
Love, hope, ambition, are no more believed ; 
And we disdain what formerly had grieved. 

A few fair flowers around their colours fling, 
But what does questioning their sources bring ? 
That from corruption and from death they 
spring. 

131 



J 



liANDON'S POEMS. 

'Tis thus witn those sweet dreams which life 

begin, 
We weary of them, and we look within : 
What do we find ? Guile, suffering, and sin. 

I know my kind too well not to despise 
The gilded sophistry that round it lies : 
Hate, sorrow, falsehood — mocking their dis 
guise. 

O, thou old world ! so full of guilt and cares, 
So mean, so small — I marvel heaven bears 
Thy struggle, wWch the seeing almost shares. 

Yet, mine ancestral city, for thy sake 
A lingeruig iiterest on this earth I take ; 
In the dun midnight 'tis for thee I wake. 

Softly the starlight falleth over fanes 
That rise above the myrtle-wooded plains, 
Where summer hath her loveUest domains. 

Beneath, the gardens spread their pleasant 

shade. 
The lutes are hush'd that twilight music made, 
Sleep on the world her honey-spell hath laid. 

Sweet come the winds that o'er these flower 

beds rove, 
I only breathe the perfumes that ye love. 
Spirits ! my incense summons ye above. 

What of yon stately city, where are shrined 
The warrior's and the poet's wreath com- 
bined— 
A 11 the high hon jurs of the human mind I 

Her walla are bright with colours, whose fine 

dyes 
Imbody shapes that seem from yonder skies, 
And in her scrolls the world's deep wisdom lies, 
132 



etty's rovee. 



What of her future ? Through the silvery 

emoko 
. eee the distant vision I invoke. 
These glorious vi^alls have bow'd to Time's 

dark yoke. 

T eee a plain of desert sand extend, 

Scatter' d with ruins where the wild flowers 

bend, 
And the grOten ivy, like a last sad friend. 

Low are the marble columns on the sand. 
The palm trees that have grown among them 

stand 
As if they mock'd the fallen of the land. 

Hence, ye dark Spirits ! bear the dream away 5 
To-morrow but repeateth yesterday : 
First, toil— then, desolation and decay. 

Life has one vast stern likeness in its gloom, 
We toil with hopes that must themselves con. 

sume— 
The Vidde world round us is one mighty tomb. 



ETTY'S ROVER. 

I'hot: lovely and thou happy child, 

Ah, how I envy thee ! 
I should be glad to change our state, 

If such a thing might be. 



And yet it is a lingering joy 
To watch a thing so fair. 

To think that in our weary life 
Such pleasant moments are. 
12 133 



LANDON S POEMS. 

A little monarch thou art there, 

And of a fairy realm, 
Without a foe to overthrow, 

A care to overwhelm. 

Thy world is in thy own glad will 

And in each fresh delight, 
And in thy unused heart, which make* 

Its own, its golden light. 

With no misgivings in thy past, 

Thy future with no fear ; 
The present circles thee around, 

An angel's atmosphere. 

How little is the happiness 

That will content a child— 
A favourite dog, a sunny fruit, 

A blossom growing wild. 

• 

A word will fill the little heart 
With pleasure and with pride ; 

It is a harsh, a cruel thing. 
That such can be denied. 

And yet how many weary hours 
Those joyous creatures know ; 

How much of sorrow and restraint 
They to their elders owe ! 

How much they suffer from our {auUs ? 

How much from our mistakes ! 
How often, too, mistaken zeal 

An infant's misery makes ! 

We overrule, and overteach. 

We curb and we confine. 
And put the heart to school too soon, 

To learn our narrow line. 
134 



DISENCHANTMENT. 

No ; only taught by love to love, 
Seems childhood's natural task ; 

Affection, gentleness, and -hope, 
Are all its brief years ask. 

Enjoy thy happiness, sweet child, 
With careless heart and eye ; 

Enjoy those few bright hours which now, 
E'en now, are hurrying by ; 

And let the gazer on thy face • 

Grow glad with watching thee. 

And better, kinder ; — such at least 
Its influence on me. 



DISENCHANTMENT. 

Do not ask me why I loved him, 

Love's cause is to love unknown ; 
Faithless as the past has proved him. 

Once his heart appear'd mine own. 
Do not say he did not merit 

All my fondness, all my truth ; 
Those in whom love dwells inherit 

Every dream that haunted youth. 

He might not be all I dream'd him. 

Noble, generous, gifted, true. 
Not the less I fondly deem'd him, 

All those flattering visions drew. 
All the hues of old romances 

By his actual self grew dim ; 
Bitterly I mock the fancies 

That once found their life in him. 

From the hour by him enchanted, 
From the moment when we met, 

Henceforth with one image haunted. 
Life may never more forget. 
135 



landok's poems. 

All my nature changed — ^his being 
Seem'd the only source of mine, 

Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing 
Thy sad future to divine ? 

Once, upon myself relying, 

All I ask'd were words and thought; 
Many hearts to mine replying, 

Own'd the music that I brought. 
Eager, spiritual, and lonely, 

Visions fill'd the fairy hour, 
Deep with love — though love was only 

Not a presence, but a power. 

But from that first hour I met thee, 

All caught actual life from you, 
Alas ! how can I forget thee. 

Thou who mad' St the fancied true ? 
Once my wide world was ideal. 

Fair it was — ah ! very fair : 
Wherefore hast thou made it real t 

Wherefore is thy image there ? 

Ah ! no more to me is given 

Fancy's far and fairy birth; 
Chords upon my lute are riven, 

Never more to sound on earth. 
Once, sweet music could it borrow 

From a look, a word, a tone ; 
I could paint another's sorrow — 

Now I think but of mine own. 

Life's dark waves have lost the glitter 

Which at morning-tide they wore. 
And the well within is bitter ; 

Naught its sweetness may restore : 
For I know how vainly given 

Life's most precious things may be, 
Love that might have look'd on heaven. 

Even as it look'd on thee. 
136 



THE HINDOO GIKL'S SONG. 

Ah, farewell ! — with that word dying, 

Hope and love must perish too : 
For thy sake themselves denying, 

What is truth with thee untrue ? 
Farewell ! — 'tis a dreary sentence. 

Like the death-doom of the grave, 
May it wake in thee repentance, 

Stinging when too late to save ! 



THE HINDOO GIRL'S SONG. 



This song alludes to a well known superstition 
among the young Hindoo girls. They make a littlo 
boat out of a cocoanut shell, place a small lamp and 
flowers within this tiny ark of the heart, and launch 
it upon the Ganges. If it float out of sight with its 
lamp still burning, the omen is prosperous : il it 
•inks, the love of which it questions, is ill-fated. 



Float on — float on — my haunted bark, 

Above the midnight tide ; 
Bear softly o'er the waters dark 

The hopes that vdth thee glide. 

Float on — float on — thy freight is flowers, 

And every flower reveals 
The dreaming of my lonely hours. 

The hope my spurit feels. 

Float on — float on — thy shining lamp. 

The light of love, is there ; 
If lost beneath the waters damp, 

That love must then despair. 

Ploat on — ^beneath the moonlight float. 

The sacred billows o'er: 
Ah, some kind spirit guards my boat, 

For it has gain'd the shore. 

12* isr 



SPEKE HALL. 

O, FAIR old house — ^how Time doth honour 

thee, 
Giving thee what to-day may never gain. 
Of long respect and ancient poesy ? 
The yew trees at thy doors are black with 

years, 
And filled with memories of those warlike days, 
When from each bough was lopp'd a gallant 

bow; 
For then the yew was what the oak is now. 
And what our bowmen were, our sailors are, 
How green the ivy grows upon the walls, 
Ages have lent their strength to those frail 

boughs, 
A venerable wreath upon the past, 
Which here is paramount ; — the past, which is 
Imagination's own gigantic realm. 



SASSOOR,.IN THE DECCAN, 

It is Christmas, and the sunshine 

Lies golden on the fields. 
And flowers of white and purple. 

Yonder fragrant creeper yields. 

Like the plumes of some bold warrior, 

The cocoa tree on high, 
Lifts aloft its feathery branches. 

Amid the deep blue sky. • 

From yonder shadowy peepul, 
The pale fair lilac dove, 
138 



SASSOOR, IN THE DECCAN. 

Like music from a temple. 
Sings a song of grief and love. 

The earth is bright with blossoma, 
And a thousand Jewell' d wings. 

'Mid the green boughs of the tamarind 
A sudden sunshine flings. 

For the East is earth's first-born, 

And hath a glorious dower 
As nature there had lavish'd 

Her beauty and her power. 

And yet I pine for England, 
For my own — my distant home ; 

My heart is in that island, 
Where'er ray steps may roam. 

It is merry there at Christmas^ 
We have no Christmas here ; ^ 

'Tis a weary thing, a summer 
That lasts throughout the year. 

I remember how the banners 
Hung round our ancient hall, 

Bound with wreaths of shining holly, 
Brave winter's coronal. 

And above each rusty helmet 
Waved a new and cheering plume, 

A branch of crimson berries, 
And the latest rose in bloom. 

And the white and pearly misletoe 
Hung half conceal'd o'er head, 

I remember one sweet maiden, 
Whose cheek it died with red. 
139 



LAND ON S POEMS. 

The morning waked with carols,* 

A young and joyous band 
Of small and rosy songsters, 

Came tripping hand in hand. 

And sang beneath our windows, 

Just as the round red sun 
Began to melt the hoar-frost, 

And the clear cold day begun. 

And at night the aged harper 
Play'd his old tunes o'er and o'er , 

From sixteen up to sixty, 
All were dancing on that floor. 

Those were the days of childhood, 

The buoyant and the bright ; 
When hope was life's sweet sovereign. 

And the heart and step were light. 

I shall come again — a stranger 

To all that once I knew, 
For the hurried steps of manhood 

From life's flowers have dash'd the dew 

I yet may ask their welcome. 
And return from whence I came ; 

But a change is wrought within me, 
They will not seem the same. 

For my spirits are grown weary, 
And my days of youth are o'er. 

And the mirth of that glad season 
la what I can feel no more. 

♦ This is one of those pretty customs that yet re 
main at a due distance from London — London, that 
Thalaba of all observances. I remember once being 
awakened by a band of children coming up the old 
beach avenue, singing carols with all their heart. 
140 



THE DESERTER. 



Alas, for the bright promise of our youth ! 
How soon the golden chords of hope are bioken, 
How soon we find that dreams we trusted most 
Are very shadows. 



'TwAS a sweet summer morn, the lark had just 
Sprang from the clover bower around her nest, 
And pour'd her bhthe song to the clouds: the 

sun 
Shed his first crimson o'er the dark gray walla 
Of the old church, and stain' d the sparkling 

panes 
Of ivy-cover'd windows. The damp grass, 
That waved in wild luxuriance round the graves, 
Was white with dew, but early steps had been 
And left a fresh green trace round yonder tomb : 
'Twaa a plain stone, but graven with a name 
That many stopp'd to read — a soldier's name— 
And two were kneeling by it, one who had 
Been weeping ; she was widow to the brave 
Upon whose quiet bed her tears were falling. 
From off her cheek the rose of youth had fled. 
But beauty still was there, that soften'd grief, 
Whose bitterness is gone, but which was felt 
Too deeply for forgetfulness j her look. 
Fraught with high feelings and intelligence. 
And such as might beseem the Roman dame 
Whose children died for Uberty, was made 
More soft and touching by the patient smile 
Which piety had given the unearthly brow. 
Which Guido draws when he would form a 

saint 
Whose hopes are fix'd on Heaven, but who haa 

yet 

141 



landon's poems. 

Some earthly feelings binding them to Ufa. 
Her arm was leant upon a graceful youth, 
The hope, the comfort of her widowhood ; 
He was departing from her, and she led. 
The youthful soldier to his father's tomb — 
As in the visible presence of the dead 
She gave her farewell blessmg ; and her voice 
Lost its so tremulous accents as she bade 
Her child tread in that father's steps, and told 
How brave, how honour'd he had been. But 

when 
She did entreat him to remember all 
Her hopes were centred in him, that he was 
The stay of her declining years, that he 
Might be the happiness of her old age, 
Or bring her down with sorrow to the grave. 
Her words grew inarticulate, and sobs 
Alone found utterance ; and he, whose cheek 
Was flush' d with eagerness, whose ardent eye 
Gave animated promise of the fame 
That would be his, whose ear already rang 
With the loud trumpet's war-song, felt these 

dreams 
Fade for a moment, and almost renounced 
The fields he panted for, since they must cost 
Such tears as these. The churchyard left, 

they pass'd 
Down by a hawthorn hedge, where the sweet 

May 
Had shower'd its white luxuriance, intermix'o 
With crimson clusters of the wilding rose, 
And link'd with honeysuckle. O'er the path 
Many an ancient oak and stately elm 
Spread its green canopy. How Edward's eye 
Unger'd on each familiar sight, as if 
Even to things inanimate he would bid 
A last farewell ! They reach' d the cottage 

gate 
His horse stood ready ; many, too, were there, 
Who came to say good-by, and kindly wish 
To the young soldier health and happiness. 
It is a sweet, albeit most painful, feeling 
142 



THE DESERTER. 

To know we are regretted. *' Farewell" sdid 
And oft repeated, one last wild embrace 
Given to his pale mother, who stood there, 
Her cold hands press'd upon a brow as cold, 
In all the bursting heart's full agony — 
One last, last kiss, — 'he sprang upon his horse 
And urged his utmost speed with spur and rein. 
He is past . . . out of sight. . . . 

The muffled drum is rolling and the low 
Notes of the death-march float upon the wind, 
And stately steps are pacing round that sqitafe 
With slow and measured tread ; but every brow 
Is darken'd with emotion, and stern eyes. 
That look' d unshrinking on the face of death. 
When met in battle, are now moist with tears. 
The silent nng is form*d, and in the midst 
Stands the deserter ! Can this be the same, 
The young, the gallant Edward ? and are these 
The laurels promised in his early dreams ! 
Those fetter'd hands, this doom of open shame ? 
Alaa ! for yomig and passionate spirits ! Soon 
False lights will dazzle. He had madly join*d 
The rebel banner ! 'twas pride to Hnk 
His fate with Erin's patriot few, to fight 
For liberty or the grave ' But he was now 
A prisoner ; yet there he stood, as firm 
As though his feet were not upon the tomb s 
His cheek was pale as marble, and as cold ; 
But his lip trembled not, and his dark eyes 
Glanced proudly round. But when they bared 

his breast 
For the death-shot, and took a portrait thence, 
He cleuch'd his hands, and gasp'd, and one 

deep sob 
Of agony burst firom him ; and he hid 
Hia face awhile — his mother's look was there. 
He could not steel his soul when he recall'd , 
The bitterness of her despair. It pass' d— 
That moment of wild anguish ; he knelt down 5 
That sunbeam shed its glory over one, 
143 



LANDON's POESfS. 

Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep 

energy, 
The next fell over cold and bloody clay. 
There is a deep voiced sound fr&Ai yonder 

vale, 
Which ill accords with the sweet music made 
By the Ught birds nestling by those green elms ; 
And, a strange contrast to the blossom' d thorns, 
Dark plumes are waving, and a silent hearse 
Is winding through that lane. They told it bore 
A widow, who died of a broken heart : 
Her child, her soul's last treasure,— he had 

been 
Shot for desertion ! 



GLADESMUIR. 



"There is no home like the home of our infancy} 
no remembrances lilte those of our youth ; the old 
trees whose topmost boughs we have climbed, the 
hedge containing that prize a bird's nest, the fairy 
tale we heard by the fireside, are things of deep and 
serious interest in maturity. The heart, crushed or 
hardened by its intercourse with the world, turns 
With affectionate delight to its early dreams. How 
1 pity those whose childhood has been unhappy : to 
them one of the sweetest springs of feeling has been 
utterly denied, the most green and beautiful part of 
life laid waste. But to those whose spring has been 
what spring should ever be, fresh, buoyant, and 
gladsome, whose cup has not been poisoned at the 
first draught, how delicious is recollection! they 
truly know the pleasures of memory." 



Theke is not 
A valley of more quiet happiness, 
Bosom' d in greener trees, or with a river 
Clearer than thine, Gladesmuir! There are 
high hills 

144 



GLADES MUIE. 

Like barriers by thy side, where the tall pine 
Stands stately as a warrior in his prime, 
Mix'd with low gnarled oaks, whose yellow 

leaves 
Are bound with ruby tendrils, emerald shoots, 
And the wild blossom of the honeysuckle ; 
And even more impervious grows the brier, 
Cover'd with thorns and roses, mingled like 
Pleasures and pains, but shedding richly forth 
Its fragrance on the air ; and by its side 
The wilding broom as sweet, which gracefiilly 
Flings its long tresses hke a maiden's hair 
Waving in yellow beauty. The red deer 
Crouches in safety in its secret lair ; 
The sapphire, bird's-eye, and blue violets, 
Mix with white daisies in the grass beneath ; 
And in the boughs above the woodlark builds, 
And makes sweet music to the morning ; while 
All day the stock-dove's melancholy notes 
Wail plaintively — the only sounds beside 
The hum of the wild bees around some trunk 
Of an old moss-clad oak, in which is rear'd 
Their honey palace. Where the forest ends, 
Stretches a wide brown heath, till the blue sky 
Becomes its boundary ; there the only growth 
Are straggling thickets of the white flowr'd 

thorn 
And yellow furze: beyond are the grass-fields. 
And of yet fresher verdure the young wheat ; — 
These border round the village. The bright 

river 
Bounds like an arrow by, buoyant as youth 
Rejoicing in its strength. On the left side, 
Half hidden by the aged trees that time 
Has spared as honouring their sanctity, 
The old gray church is seen : its mossy walls 
And ivy-cover'd windows tell how long 
It has been sacred. There is a lone path 
Winding beside yon hillj no neighbouring 

height 
Commands so wild a view ; the ancient spire. 
The cottages, their gardens and the heath, 
13 145 



landon's poems. 

Spread far beyond, are in the prospect seen 
By glimpses as the greenwood screen gives 

way 
One is now tracing it, who gazes round 
As each look were his last. The anxious gasp 
That drinks the air as every breath brought 

health ; 
The hurried step, yet lingering at times, 
As fearful all it felt were but a dream — 
How much they tell of deep and inward feeling ' 
That stranger is worn down with toil and pain, 
His sinewy frame is wasted, and his brow 
Is darken'd with long suffering ; yet he is 
O more than happy ! — ^he has reach' d his homs, 
And Roland is a wanderer no more. 
How often in that fair romantic land 
Where he had been a soldier, he had turn'd 
From the rich groves of Spain, to think upon 
The oak and pine ; turn'd from the spicy air. 
To sicken for his own fresh mountain breeze , 
And loved the night, for then familiar things. 
The moon and stars, were visible, and look'd 
As they had always done, and shed sweet tears 
To think that he might see them shine again 
Over his ovra Gladesmuir ! That silver moon 
In all her perfect beauty, is now rising ; 
The purple billows of the west have yet 
A shadowy glory ; all beside is calm , 
And tender and serene — a quiet light, 
Which suited well the melancholy joy 
Of Roland's heart. At every step the ligh', 
Play'd o'er some old remembrance ; now ths 

ray 
Dimpled the crystal river ; now the church 
Had all its windows glittering from beneath 
The curtaining ivy. Near and more near lis 

drew — 
His heart beat quick, for the next step will be 
Upon his father's threshold ! But he paused — 
He heard a sweet and sacred sound — they join" d 
In the accustom' d psalm, and then they said 
The words of God, and, last of all, a prayer 
146 



GLADESMUIE. 

More solemn, and more touching. He could 

hear 
Low sobs as it was utter' d. They did pray 
His safety, his return, his happiness ; 
And ere they ended he was in their arms ! 
The wind rose up, and o'er the calm blue- sky 
The tempest gather' d, and the heavy rain 
Beat on the casement ; but they press'd them 

round 
The blazing hearth, and sat while Ronald 

spoke 
Of the fierce battle ; and all answer'd him 
With wonder, and with teUing how they wept 
During his absence, how they number'd o'er 
The days for his return. Thrice hallow' d 

shrhie 
Of the heart's intercourse, our own fireside ! 
I do remember in my early youth 
I parted from its circle ; how I pined 
With happy recollections — they to me 
Wtire sickness and deep sorrow : how I thought 
Of the strange tale, the laugh, the gentle smile 
Bruathing of love, that wiled the night away. 
The hour of absence past, I was again 
With those who loved me. What a beauty 

dwelt 
In each accustom' d face ! what music hung 
On each familiar voice ! We circled in 
Our meeting ring of happiness. If e'er 
This life has bliss, I knew and felt it then ! 

But there was one Ronald remember'd not 
Y"et 'twas a creature beautiful as Hope, 
With eyes blue as the harebell when the 

dew 
Sparkles upon its azure leaves ; a cheek 
Fresh as a mountain rose, but delicate 
As rainbow colours, and as changefiil too. 
" The orphan Ellen, have you then forgot 
Your laughing playmate?" Ronald would 

have clasp'd 
The maiden to his heart, but she shrank back ; 
147 



landon's poems. 

A crimson blush and tearful lids belied 
Her light tone, as she bade him not forget 
So soon his former friends. But the next morn 
Were other tears than those sweet ones tha. 

come 
Of the full heart's o'erflowings. He was given, 
The loved, the wanderer, to their prayers at 

last ; 
But he was now so changed, there was no trace 
Left of his former self; the glow of health, 
Of youth, was gone, and in his sallow cheek 
A.nd faded eye decay sat visible ; — 
All felt that he was sinking to the grave. 
He wander' d like a ghost around ; would lean 
For hours, and watch the river ; or would he 
Beneath some aged tree, and hear the birds 
Singing so cheerfully ; and vdth faint step 
Would sometimes try the mountain side. He 

loved 
To look upon the settmg sun, and mark 
The twilight's dim approach. He said he was 
Most happy that all through his hfe one wish 
Had still been present to his soul — the wish 
That he might breathe his native air again ; — 
That prayer was granted, for he died at home. 
One wept for him when other eyes were dry, 
Treasured his name in silence and in tears, 
Till her young heart's impassion' d sohtude 
Was fill'd but with his image. She had soothed 
And waich'd his few last hours — ^but he was 

gone ! 
The grave to her was now the goal of hope ! 
She pass'd, but gently as the rose leaves fall 
Scatter'd by the spring gales. Two months 

had fled 
Since Ronald died ; they threw the suramej- 

flowers 
Upon his sod, and ere those leaves were tinged 
With autumn's yellow colours, they were 

twined 
For the poor Ellen's death-wreaths! . . , 
They made her grave by Ronald's. 
148 



THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL. 



Their path had been a troubled one, each ztep 
Had trod 'mid thorns and springs of bitterness; 
But they had fled away from the cold world, 
And found, in a fair valley, solitude 
And happiness in themselves. They oft would ror« 
Through the dark forests when the golden light 
Of evening Was upon the oak, or catch 
The first wild breath of morning on the hill, 
And in the hot noon seek some greenwood shade, 
Fill'd with the music of the birds, the leaves. 
Or the descending waters' distant song. 
And that young maiden hung delightedly 
Upon her minstrel lover's words, when he 
Breathed some old melancholy verse, or told 
Love's eVer-varying histories ; and her smile 
Thank'd him so tenderly, that he forgot 
Or thought of but to scorn the flatteries 
He was so proud of once. I need not say 
How happy his sweet mistress was. — O, all 
Enow love is woman's happiness ! 



Come, love! we' 11 rest us from our wanderings; 
The violets are fresh among the moss, 
The dew is not yet on their purple leaves, 
Warm with the sun's last kiss — sit here, dear 

love ! 
This chestnut be our canopy. Look up 
Towards the beautiful heaven ; the fair moon 
Is shining timidly, hke a young queen 
Who fears to claim her full authority : 
The stars shine in her presence ; o'er the sky 
A few light couds are wandering, hke the fears 
That even happy love must know ; the air 
Is fall of perfume and most musical, 
Although no other sounds are on the gale 
Than the soft faUing of the mountain rill, 
] 3* 149 



landon's poems. 

Or waving of the leaves. 'Tis just the time 
For legend of romance, and, dearest ! now 
I have one framed for thee — it is of love, 
Most perfect love, and of a faithful heart 
That was a sacrifice upon the shrine 
Itself had rear'd ! I will begin it now, 
Like an old tale : — There was a princess once, 
More beautiful than sprmg, when the warm 

look 
Of summer calls the blush upon her cheek, 
The matchless Isabel of Portugal. 
She moved in beauty, and where'er she went 
Some heart did homage to her loveliness. 
But there was one — a youth of lowly birth— 
Who worshipp'd her ! — I have heard many say 
Love lives on hope ; they knew not what tliey 

said ; 
Hope is Love's happiness, but not its life ; — 
How many hearts have nourish' d a vain flame 
In silence and in secret, though they knew 
They fed the scorching fire that would consume 

them ! 
Young Juan loved in veriest hopelessness ! — 
He saw the lady once at matin time, — 
Saw her when bent in meek humility 
Before the altar ; she v/as then unveil' d, 
And Juan gazed upon the face wliich was 
Thenceforth the world to him ! Awhile' he 

look'd 
Upon the white hands clasp' d gracefully ; 
The rose-bud lips, moving in silent prayer ; 
The raven hair, that hung as a dark cloud 
On the white brow of morning ! She arose, 
And as she moved, her slender figure waved 
Like the light cypress, when the breeze ol 

spring 
Wakes inusic in its boughs. As Juan knelt 
It chanced her eyes met his, and all his soul 
Madden'd in that slight glance ! She left the 

place ; 
Yet still her shape seem'd visible, and still 
He felt the light through the long eyelash steal 
150 



THE MINSTREL OF POKTUGAL. 

And melt within his heart ! . . . . 
From that time life was one impassion' d 

dream : 
He linger' d on the spot which she had made 
So sacred by her presence, and he thought 
It happiness to only breathe the air 
Her sigh had perfumed — but to press the floor 
Her fairy step had hallow' d. He renounced 
All projects of ambition, joy'd no more 
In pleasures of his age, but Uke a ghost, 
Confined to one pecuUar spot, he stray'd 
Where first he saw the princess ; and the court 
Through which she pass'd to matins, now 

became 
To him a home ; and either he recall' d 
Fondly her every look, or else embalm'd 

Her name in wild, sweet song 

His love grew blazed abroad — a poet's love 
Is immortality ! The heart whose beat 
Is echo'd by the lyre, will have its griefs, 
Its tenderness, remember' d, when each pulse 
Has long been cold and still. Some pitied 

him. 
And others marvell'd, half ui mockery ; 
They Uttle knew what pride love ever has 
In self-devotedness. The princess heard 
Of her pale lover ; but none ever knew 
Her secret thoughts : she heard it silently. 
It could not be but woman's heart must feel 
Such fond and faithful homage '.—But some 

deem'd 
Even such timid worship was not meet 
For royalty. They bade the youth depart. 
And the king sent him gold; he turn' d away. 
And would not look upon the gUttermg trea- 
sure — 
And then they banish' d him ! He heard them 

say 
He was an exile with a ghastly smile. 
And murmur'd not — but rose and left the city 
He went on silently, until he came 
To where a little hill rose, co\ er'd- o'er 
151 



landon's poems. 

With lemon shrubs and golden oranges : 
The windows of the palace where she dwelt-— 
His so loved Isabel — o'erlook'd the place. 
There was some gorgeous fete there, for the 

light 
Stream'd through the lattices, and a fair sound 
Of lute, and dance, and song, came echoing. 
The wanderer hid his face ; but from his brow 
His hands fell powerless! Some gather'd 

round 
And rais'd him froiri the ground : his eyes were 

closed, 
His lip and cheek were colourless ; — they told 
His heart was broken ! . . . . 

His princess never knew an earthly love : 
She vow'd herself to heaven, and she died 

young ! 
The evening of her death, a strange, sweoi 

sound 
Of music came, delicious as a dream: 
With that her spirit parted from this earth, 
Many remember' d that it was the hour 
Her humble lover perish' d ! 



CONISTON WATER! 

THOtr lone and lovely water, would I were 
A dweller by thy deepest soUtude ! 
How weary am I. of my present life, 
Its falsehoods, and its fantasies — its noise 
And the unkindly hurry of the crowd, 
'Mid whom my days are number' d ! I would 

watch 
The tremulous vibration of the rays 
The moon sends down to kiss thy quiet wavea; 
And when they died, wish I could die like them, 
Melting upon the still and silvery air : 
Or when the autumn scatters the wan leaves a> 
Like ghosts, I'd meditate above their fall, 
152 



EXPECTATION. 

And say " So perish all our earthly hopes." 
So is the heart left desolate and bare, 
And on us falls the shadow of the tomb, 
Before we rest within it— 



EXPECTATION. 

She look'd from out the window 
With long and asking gaze. 

From the gold clear hght of morning 
To the twilight's purple haze. 

Cold and pale the planets shone, 

Still the girl kept gazing on. 

From her white and weary forehead 

Droopeth the dark hair. 
Heavy with the dews of evening, 

Heavier with her care ; 
Falling as the shadows fall. 
Till flung round her like a pall. 

When from the carved lattice 

First she leant to look, 
Her bright face was written 

Like some pleasant book ; 
Her warm cheek the red air quafTd, 
And her eyes look'd out and laugh' d. 
She is leaning back now languid 

And her cheek is white. 
Only on the drooping eyelash 

Glis{en3 tearful light. 
Colour, sunshine hours are gone, 
Y"et the lady watches on. 

Human heart this history *. 

Is thy fated lot, 
Even such thy watching. 

For what cometh not. 
Till with anxious waiting dull, 
Round thee fades the beautiful, 
163 



landon's poems. 

Still thou seekest on, though weary 

Seeking still in vain : 
Daylight deepens into twilight, 

What has been thy gain ! 
Death and night are closing round, 
All that thou hast sought unfound. 



CHRIST CROWNED WITH THORNS. 

"behold the man." 
"A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief." 

Too little do we think of thee. 

Our too indulgent Lord : 
We ask not what thy will may be, 

We dwell not on thy word. 

Thou, who in human shape wast bom, 

And shared in human wo ; 
Thou, who didst wear the crown of thorn. 

Which all must wear below ; 

Thou, who the sinner's fate didst share, 

Yet from the grave arise— 
Alas ! unworthy that we are 

Of such a sacrifice. 

Thy love should fill our hearts, like dew 
That fills the flowers by night ; 

Who, in that gentle rain renew 
The waste of morning's light. 

Thus doth life's hurry and its glara 

Dry up within our heart 
The holier thoughts that are thy share, 

The spirit's better part. 
154 



CHEIST CROWNED WITH THORKg, 

And yet we turn not to thy love, 

We seek not to recall 
The hopes that hft our souls above 

Their low and earthly thrall. 

On pleasures or on wealth intent. 

Careless we hurry on, 
And vainly precious hours are spent 

Before we think them gone. 

Their joy and sorrow, sin and stnfe, 

Close round us hke a bond. 
Which so enslaves to present life, 

We never look beyond. 

Lord, if every thought were thine. 

How little would they be 
Acceptable before thy shrine, 

Unwerthy heaven and thee. 

Yet thou hast said, thou wilt accept 

Prayers offer' d in thy name ; 
That never tears in vain were wept, 

If from the heart they came. 

Then strike our rocky souls, O Lord, 

Amid life's desert place ; 
Yet may their harden' d depths afford 

The waters of thy grace. 

Low in the dust we kneel and pray, 

O ! sanctify our tears : 
Till they wash every stain away 

From past and guilty years. 
155 



WARNING. 

Prat thee, maiden, hear him not! 
Take thou warning by my lot ; 
Read my scroll, and mark thou all 
I can tell thee of thy thrall. 
Thou hast own'd that youthful breast 
Treasures its most dangerous guest ; 
Thou hast own'd that love is there : 
Though no features he may wear, 
Such as would a saint deceive, 
Win a skeptic to believe, 
Only for a time that brow, 
Will seem what 'tis seeming now. 
I have said, heart, be content ! 
For Love's power o'er thee is spent. 
That I love not now, O true !^ 
I have bade such dreams adieu : 
Therefore deemest thou my heart 
Saw them tranquilly depart ; 
That they past, nor left behind 
Wreck and ruin in my mind. 
Thou art m the summer hour 
Of first passion's early power ; 
I am in the autumn day, 
iif its darkness, and decay. 
■—Seems thine idol now to thee 
Even as a divinity ? 
Such the faith that I too held ; 
Not the less am I compell'd 
All my heart-creed to gainsay, 
Own my idol gilded clay, 
And yet pine to dream again 
What I know is worse than vain. 
Ay, I did love, and how well. 
Let thine own fond weakness tell i 
Still upon the " ften'd mood 
156 



WARNINGf. 

Of mytwdight soliijide, 
Still upon my midnight teaf , 
Rises image all too dear ; 
Dark and starry eyes, whose light 
Make the glory of the night ; 
Brow like ocean's morning foam, 
For each noble thought a home. 
Well such temple's fair outline 
Seem'd the spirit's fitting shrine. 
~^Is he hero, who hath won 
Fields we shrink to think upon ? * 

Patriot, on whose gifted tongue 
Senates in their wonder hung ? 
Sage, before whose gifted eyes 
Nature spreads her mysteries ? 
Bard, to whose charm'd lute is given 
All that earth can breathe of heaven ?— 
Seems thy lover these to thee ? 
Even more mine seem'd to me. 
Now, my fond belief is past ; 
Strange, methinks, if thine should last, 
" Be content, thou lovest not now :" 
Free, thou sayest, — dream'st thou how t 
Loathing wouldst thou shun dismay' d 
Freedom by such ransom paid. 
-~-Girl, for thee I'll lay aside 
Veil of smiles and mask of pride ; 
Shrouds that only ask of Fate 
Not to seem so desolate. 
—I am young, — ^bat age's snow 
Hides not colder depths below ; 
I am gay, — ^but such a light 
Shines upon the grave by night. 
—Yet mine is a common tale ; 
Hearts soon changed, and vows were frail 
Each one blamed the other's deed. 
Yet both felt t"hey were agreed 
Ne'er again might either prove 
Those sweet fallacies of love. 
—Still for what so vain I hold 
Is my wasted heart grown cold. 
Can hopes be again believed, 
14 157 



LANBON'S POEMS. 

When their sweetest have deceived t 
Can affection's chain be trusted, 
When its dearest links have rusted ? 
Can Ufe's dreams again be cherish'd, 
When its dearest ones have perish'd t 
I know Love will not endure ; — 
Nothing now to me seems sure. 
—Maiden, by the thousand tears 
Lava floods on my first years ; 
By the nights, when burning pain 
Fed upon my heart and brain ; 
By the wretched days now past, 
By the weary days to last ; 
Be thou warn'd, for still the same 
Is Love, beneath whatever name. 
Keep thy fond faith like a thing 
Where Time never change may bring. 
Vow thee to thy idol's shrine, — 
Then, maiden ! read thy fate in mine. 



THE COQUfillfi;. 

She danced upon the waters, 

Beneath the morning sun, 
Of all old Ocean's daughters 

The very fairest one. 
An azure zone comprest her 

Round her white and slender side. 
For her gallant crew had drest her 

Like a beauty and a bride. 

She wpre her trappings gayly, 

As a lady ought to do. 
And the waves which kiss'4 her daily 

Proud of their mistress grew. 
They clung like lovers round her, 

And bathed her airy feet ; 
With white foam wreaths they bound he?. 

To grace her, and to greet. 
158 



THE COQFETTBi 

She cuf the blue wave, scorning 

Our dull and common land ; 
To the rosy airs of morning, 

We saw her sails expand. 

How graceful was their drooping 
Ere the winds began to blow, 

While the gay Coquette was stooping 
To her clear green glass below ! 

How gallant was their sweeping, 

While they swell' d upon the air ; 
As the winds were in their keeping, 

And they knew they were so fair ! 
A shower of spray before her, 

A silvery wake behind, 
A cloud of canvass o'er her, 

She sprang before the wind. 

She was so loved, the fairy. 

Like a mistress or a child ; 
For she was so trim and airy, 

So buoyant and so wild. 
And though so young a rover. 

She knew what life could be ; 
For she had wander' d over 

Full many a distant sea. 

One night, 'twas in September, 

A mist arose on high ; 
Not the oldest could remember 

Such a dense and darken' d sky ; 
And small dusk birds came hovering 

The gloomy waters o'er ; 
The waves mock'd their sweet sovereign, 

And would obey no more. 

There was no wind to move them, 
So the sails were furl'd and fast, , 

And the gallant flag above them 
Dropp'd down upon the mast. 
159 



landon's poems. 

All was still as if death's shadow 
Were resting on the grave ; 

And the sea, like some dark meadow, 
Had not one rippling wave : 

When the sky was rent asunder 

With a flood of crimson Ught, 
And one single burst of thunder 

Aroused the silent night, 
'Twas the signal for their waking ! 

The angry winds arose, 
Like giant captives breaking 

The chain of forced repose. 

Yet bravely did she greet them, 

Those jarring winds and waves ; 
Ready with scorn to meet them, 

They who had been her slaves. 
She faced the angry heaven, 

Our bold and fair Coquette ; 
Her graceful sides are riven, 

But she will brave it yet. 

Like old oak of the forest, 

Down comes the thundering mast. 
Her need is at the sorest, 

She shudders in the blast. 
Hark to that low quick gushing ! 

The hold has- sprung a leak ; 
On their prey the waves are rushing, 

The vahant one grows weak. 

One cry, and all is quiet. 

There is nor sight nor Sound; 
Save the fierce gale at its riot, 

And the angry waters round. 
The morn may come viith weeping, 

And the storm may cease to blow | 
But the fair Coquette is sleeping 

A thotisand fathoms low. 

160 



THE VISIONARY. 

I PRAY thee do not speak to me 

As you are speaking now ; 
It brings the colour to my cheek, 

The shadow to my brow. 

I pray thee do not look at me, 

I cannot bear that gaze ; 
Though downcast be my eye, it still 

Too much my heart betrays. 

I feel the past is written there, 
The past, long since gone by— 

The past, where feelings, fancies, hopes, 
Aiiae unburied lie ; 

Unburied, for their restless ghosta 

Still haunt the sad domain. 
And mockeries of their former selves 

Come thronging back again. 

But changed as I and thou art changed, 

Or rather me alone, 
I never had your heart— but mine, 

Alas ! was all your own. 

O, magic of a tone and word, 

Loved all too long and well, 
I cannot close my heart and ear 

Against their faithless spell— 

I know them false, I know them vain, 

And yet I hsten on — 
And say them to myself again, 

Long after thou art gone. 
14* 161 



LANDON S POEMS. 

I make myself my own deceit, 

I know it is a dream, 
But one that from my earliest youth 

Has colour'd life's deep stream ; 

Frail colours flung in vain, but yet 
A thousand times more dear 

Than any actual happiness 
That ever bright ?n'd here. 

The dear, the long, the dreaming hours 
That I have past with thee. 

When thou hadst not a single thought 
Of how thou wert with me— 

I heard thy voice — I spoke again — 

I gazed upon thy face. 
And never scene of breathing hfe 

Could leave a deeper trace. 

Than all that fancy conjured up. 
And made thee look and say. 

Till I have loathed reality. 
That chased such dream away. 

Now, out upon this fooUshness, 

Thy heart it is not mine ; 
And, knowing this, how can I waste 

My very soid on thine ? 

Alas ! I have no power to choose. 

Love is not at my will ; 
I say I must be careless, cold, 

But find I love thee still. 

I think upon my wasted life 

And on my wasted heart. 
And turn, ashamed and sorrowful, 

From what will not depart. 
162 



THE VISIONARY. 

Thy haunting influence, how it mocks * 

My efforts to forget ! 
The stamp love only seals but once 
Upon my life is set. 

/ I hear fron? others gentle words, 
{ I scarcely heed the while ; 
Listen" d to, but with weariness, 
Forgotten with a smile. 



But thine, though chance and usual words 

Are treasured, as we keep 
Things lovely, precious, and beloved, 

O'er which we watch and weep. 

I scarcely wish to see thee how. 

It is too dear a joy : 
It is such perfect happiness, 

It must have some alloy. 

I dream of no return from thee — 

Enough for me to love ; 
I brood above my silent heart, 

As o'er its nest the dove. 

But speak not, look not, mock ire not, 
With hght and careless words ; 

It wounds me to the heart, it jars 
My spirit's finest chords. 

I'll not forget thee ; — let me dream 

About thee as before. 
But, farewell, dearest ; yes, farewell, 

For we must meet no more. 
163 



THE ORPHAN BALLAD SINGERS. 

O, WEARY, weary are our feet, 

And weary, weary is our way ; 
Through many a long and crowded street 

We've wander'd mournfully to-day. ' 

My little sister she is pale ; 

She is too tender and too young 
To bear the autumn's sullen gale, 

And all day long the child has sung. 

She was our mother's favourite child, 

Who loved her for her eyes of blue, 
And she is deUcate and mild, 

She cannot do what I can do. 
She never met her father's eyes. 

Although they were so like her own. 
In some far distant sea he hes, 

A father to his chUd unknown. 

The first time that she lisp'd his name, 

A little playful thing was she ; 
How proud we were,^yet that night came 

The tale how he had sunk at sea. 
My mother never raised her head ; 

How strange, how white, how cold she grew 
It was a broken heart they said— 

I wish our hearts were broken too. 

We have no home — we have no friends, 
They said our home no more was ours ; 

Our cottage where the ash tree bends, 
The garden we had fiU'd with flowers, 

The sounding shell our father brought, ' 
That we might hear the sea at home ; 
164 



HINDOO AKD MAHOMMEDAN BUILDINGS. 

Our bees, that in the summer wrought 
The winter's golden honeycomb. 

We wander'd forth 'mid wind and rain, 

No shelter from the open sky ; 
I only wish to see again 

My mother's grave, and rest and die. 
Alas, it is a weary thing • 

To sing our ballads o'er and o'er ; 
The songs we used at home to sing — 

Alas, we have a home no more ! 



HINDOO AND MAHOMMEDAN 
BUILDINGS. . 

IIiSTOKT hath but few pages— soon is told 

Man's ordinary life. 

Labour, and care, and strife, 
Make up the constant chronicle of old. 

First comes a dream — the mfancy of earth, 

When all its untried powers 

Are on the conscious hours 
Warm with the Ught that called them into birtli 

'Tis but a dream — ^for over earth was said 

An early curse — time's flood 

Rolls on in tears and blood ; 
Blood that upon her virgin soil was shed. 

Abel the victim — Cain the homicide, 

Were type and prophecy 

Of times that were to be. 
Thus redden'd from the first life's troubled tide. 
165 



landon's poems. 

See where in great decay yon temple stands, 

Destruction has began 

Her mockery of man, 
Bowing to dust the work of mortal hands. 

What are its annals — such as suit all time 

Man's brief and bitter breath, 

Hurrying unwelcome death, 
And something too that marks the East's bright 
clime. 

l''or mighty is the birthplace of the sun 
All has a vaster scale 
Than climes more cold and pale, 

Where yet creation's work is half begun. 

Her conquests were by multitudes, — the kings' 
Who warr'd on each vast plain, 
Look'd on a people slain. 

As amid conquests customary things. 

Her wealth — our gold is one poor miser's store, 
Her pomp was as the night. 
With gUttering myriads bright, 

Her palace floors with gems were cover'd o'er 

Her summer's prodigality of hues, 
Trees like eternal shrines. 
Where the rich creeper twines. 

And all Ut up with morn's most golden dews. 

'Tis a past age — the conqueror's banner furl'd, 

Droops o'er the falUng tower ; 

Yet was the East's fu'st hour 
The great ideal of the material v/orld. 

The beautiful— the fertile and the great, 
The terrible — and wild, 
.Were round the first-born child 

Of the young hour of earth's imperial state: 
166 



tANCASTER CASTLE. 

And yet the mind's high tones were wanting 
there, 

The carved and broken stone 

Tells glories overthrown : 
Religions, empires, palaces are— where ? 

Such annals have the tempest's fire and gloom ; 

They tell of desperate power, 

Famine and battle's hour, 
War, want, disorder, slavery, and the tomb. 

Not such the history that half redeems 

The meanness of our clay ; 

That intellectual sway 
Which works the excellence of which it dreams. 

Fall, fall, ye mighty temples to the ground ; 

Not in your sculptured rise 

In the real exercise 
Of human nature's highest power found. 

Tis in the lofty hope, the daily toil, 

'Tis in the gifted line, 

In each far thought divine, 
That brings down heaven to hght our common 
soil. 

Tis in the great, the lovely, and the true, 
'Tis in the generous thought. 
Of all that man has wrought. 
Of all that yet remains for man to do. 



LANCASTER CASTLE. 

Dakk with age these towers look down 
Over their once vassal town ; 
Warlike — yet long years have past 
Since they look'd on slaughter last. 
167 



LANDON'a POEMS. 

Never more will that dark wall 
Kcho with the trumpet's call, 
Wten the Red Rose and the White 
</aird their warriors to the fight. 

Never more the sounding yew, 
Which the English archer drew. 
Will decide a battle-day 
Past like its own shafts away. 

Never more those halls will ring 
With the ancient harper's string. 
When the red wine pass'd along 
With a shout and with a song. 

Trumpet, harp, and good yew bow 
Are so many memories now, 
While the loom, the press, the gun, 
Have another age begun. 

Yet that old chivalric hour 
Hath upoii the present power 
Changed — and soften' d and refined 
It has left its best behind. 

What may its bequeathings be ? 
Honour, song, and courtesy 
Like the spirit of its clay, 
Yesterday redeems to-day. 



CLAVERHOUSE AT THE BATTLE 
OF BOTHWELL BRIG. 

He leads them on, the chief, the knight 5 
Dark is his eye with fierce delight, 
A calm and unrelenting joy. 
Whose element is to destroy. 
168 



MANCHESTEE. 

Down fells his soft and shining hair, 
His face is as woman's fair ; 
And that slight frame seems rather meant 
For lady's bower than soldier's tent. 

But on that kmdled brow is wrought 
The energy that is of thought, 
The sternness and the strength that grow 
In the high heart that beats below. 

The golden spur is on his heel, 
The spur his war-horse does not feel ; 
The sun alone has gilt the brand 
Now bared in his unsparing hand. 

But ere the sun go down again 
That sword will wear a deeper stain 
Sun and sword alike will go 
Down o'er the dying and the foe. 

Never yet hath fail'd that brand. 
Never yet hath spared that hand ; 
Where their mingled hght is shed, 
Are the fugitive or dead. 

Though the grave were on his way, 
Forward, would that soldier say ; 
And upon his latest breath 
Would be, " Victory or Death." 



MANCHESTER. 

Go back a century on the town, 
That o'er yon crowded plain. 

With wealth its dower, and art its crown 
Extends its proud domain. 

Upon that plain a village stood, 

Lonely, obscure, and poor; 

15 169 



landon's poems. 

The sullen stream roll'd its dull flood 
Amid a barren moor. 

Now, mark the hall, the church, the street. 

The buildings of to-day ; 
Behold the thousands now that meet 

Upon the peopled way. 
Go, silent with the sense of power, 

And of the mighty mind 
Which thus can animate the hour. 

And leave its work behind. 

Go through that city, and behold 

What intellect can yield. 
How it brings forth an hundred-fold 

From time's enduring field. 
Those walls are fill'd with wealth, the spoiS 

Of industry and thought, 
I'he mighty harvest which man's toil 

Oat of the past has wrought. 

Science and labour here unite 

The thoughtful and the real. 
And here man's strength puts forth its might 

To work out man's ideal. 

The useful is the element 

Here labour'd by the mind, 
Which, on the active present bent. 

Invented and combined. 

The product of that city, now, 

Far distant lands consume ; 
The Indian wears around his brow 

The white weba of her loom. 
Her vessels sweep from East to West ; 

Her merchants are like kings ; 
While wonders in her walls attest 

The power that commerce brings. 
1?0 



THE NIZAM's DAtJGHTEK, 




From wealth hath sprung up nobler fi-uit, 




Taste link'd with arts divine ; 




The Gallery and the Institute 




Enlighten and refine. 




And many an happy English home 




With love and peace repays 




The care that may be yet to come, 




^ The toil of early days. 




Had I to guide a stranger's eye 




Around our glorious land, 




Where yonder wondrous factoiiea lie 


/ 


I'd bid that stranger stand. 




Let the wide city spread display'd 




*■ Beneath the morning sun, 




And in it see for England's trade 




What yonder town hath done."* 




THE NIZAM'S DAUGHTER. 




She is as yet a child in years, 




Twelve springs are on her face, 




Yet in her slender form appears, 




The woman's perfect grace. 




Her silken hair, that glossy black, 




But only to be found 




There, or upon the raven's back, 




Falls sweeping to the ground. 




'Tio parted in two shining braids 




With silver and with gold, 




And one large pearl by contrast aids 




The darkness of each fold. 




* "In a speech last year, at the British Associa- 


Jion, Mr. Brand well advised the members to take 




the manufacturing districts of England, on their 




way to the north, and to explore the wonders there 




tccumulated. Manchester is the great miracle of 




171 





LANDON'S POEMS. 

And, for she is so young, that flowers 

Seem natural to her now, 
There wreaths the champac's snowy showers 

Around her sculptured brow. 

Close to her throat the silvery vest 

By shining clasps is bound. 
Scarce may her graceful shape be guest, 

'Mid drapery floating round. 
But the small curve of that vein'd throat; 

Like marble, but more warm, 
The fairy foot and hand denote 

How perfect is the form. 

Upon the ankle and the wrist 

There is a band of gold, 
No step by Grecian fountain kiss'd 

Was of diviner mould. 
In the bright girdle round her waist. 

Where the red rubies shine. 
The kandjar's* glittering hilt is placed, 

To mark her royal line. 

Her face is like the moonlight pale. 

Strangely and purely fair, 
For never summer sun nor gale 

Has touch' d the softness there. 
There are no colours of the rose, 

Alone the lip is red ; 
No blush disturbs the sweet repose 

Which o'er that cheek is shed. 



modem progress. Science, devoted to utility and 
industry, have achieved the most wonderful results. 
Intellectual advancement denoted in a taste for 
literature and the fine arts,— employment for the 
highest as well as the lowest ;— public buildings, 
liberal institutions, and all that can mark wealth, 
and a knowledge of its best purposes ;— all that b 
the growth of a single century." 

♦ The kandj ar is the small poniard worn by Hindoo 
princesses. 

172 



IVY BRIDGE, DEVONSHIRE. 

And yet the large black e3''es, like uight, 
Have passion and have power ; 

Within their sleepy depths is Ught, 
For some wild wakening hoiur. 

A world of sad and tender dreams 
'Neath those long lashes sleep, 

A native pensiveness that seems 
Too still and sweet to weep. 

Of such seclusion know we naught ; 

Yet surely woman here 
Grows shrouded from all common thought, 

More delicate and dear. 
And love, thus made a thing apart, 

Must seem the more divine, 
When the sweet temple of the heart 

Is a thrice veiled shrine. 



IVY BRIDGE, DEVONSHIRE. 

0, RECALL not the past, though this valley be 
fill'd 
With all we remember, and all we regret ; 
The flowers of its summer have long been 
distill' d, 
The essence has perish'd, ah ! let us forget. 
What avails it to mourn over hours that are 
gone, 
O'er illusions by youth and by fantasy nurst ? 
Alas ! of the few that are lingering, none 
Wear the light or the hues that encircled the 
first. 

Alas for the springtime ! alas for our youth ! 
The grave , has no slumber more cold tlian 
the heart, 
15* 173 



landon's poems. 

When languid and darken'd it sinks into truth, 
And sees the sweet colours of morning 
depart. 

Life still has its falsehoods to lure and to leave, 
But they cannot delude like the earlier light ; 

We know that the twiUght encircles the eve, 
And sunset is only the rainbow of night. 



COTTAGE COURTSHIP. 

Now, out upon this smiling, 

No smile shall meet his sight ; 
And a word of gay reviling 

Is all he'll hear to-night, 
For he'll hold my smiles too light!} 

If he always sees me smile ; 
He'll think they shine more brightly 

When I have frown' d awhile. 

'Tis not kindness keeps a lover. 

He must feel the chain he wears ; 
All the sweet enchantment's over, 

When hejjias no anxious cares. 
The heart would seem too common. 

If he thought that heart his own ; 
Ah ! the empire of a woman 

Is still in the unknown. 

Let change without a reason. 

Make him never feel secure ; 
For it is an April season 

That a lover must endure. 
They are all of them so faithless. 

Their torment is your gain ; 
Would you keep your own heart scathlesB,, 

Be this one to give the pain. 

1^4 



HONISTER CRAG, 



CUMBERLAND. 

**1n this wild and picturesque glen a skirmish took 
place between the Elliotts and the Grtemes, in which 
the young leader of the Scottish clan was slain, 
though his party were victorious. They buried him 
in an opening on the hillside ; and every clansman 
brought a fragment of rock, to raise a rude monu- 
ment to his honour. On the summit of the pile tliey 
placed his bonnet, shield, and claymore, that neitlier 
friend nor foe should pass irreverently the youthful 
warrior's grave." 



Not where the green grass hides 

His kindred before him ; 
Not where his native trees 

Droop to deplore him; 
But in the stranger's land 

Must we bestow him. 
Leave there his sword and shield, 

That all may know him. 

Never was fairer youth. 

Never was bolder ; 
Who would have met his sword 

A few summers older ? 
Ne'er will our chieftain's line 

Yield such another ; 
Who can, amid us all ? 

Tell it his mother. 
175 



THE NEGLECTED ONE. 

And there is silence in that lonely hall 
Save where the waters of the fountains fall 
And the wind's distant murmuring, which takes 
Sweet messages from every bud it wakes. 
'Tis more than midnight; all the lamps are 

gone, 
Their fragrant oils exhausted, — all but one, 
A little silver lamp beside a scroll, 
Where a young maiden leant, and pour'd her 

soul, 
In those last words, the bitter and the brief. 
How can they say confiding is relief? 
Light are the woes that to the eyehds spring. 
Subdued and soften' d by the tears they bring; 
But there are some too long, too well conceal' J 
Too deeply felt, — that are but once reveal' d : 
Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart. 
And then the Hfe-blood follows from the heart • 
Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh. 
But which, once spoken, only hath to die. 

Young, very young, the lady was, who now 
Bow'd on her slender hand her weary brow : 
Not beautiful, save when the eager thought 
In the soft eyes a sudden beauty wrought : 
Not beautiful, save when the cheek's warm 

blush 
Grew eloquent with momentary flush 
Of feeling, that made beauty, not to last, 
And scarcely caught, so quickly is it past. 
— Alas ! she knew it well ; too early thrown 
Mid a cold world, the unloved and the lone. 
With no near kindred ties on whom could dweJJ 
Love that so sought to be beloved as well. 
Too sensitive for flattery, and too kind 
To beai- the lonehness by fate assign' d, 
176 



THE NEGLECTED ONE. 

Her life had been a struggle : long she strove 
To fix on things inanimate her love ; 
On pity, kindness, music, gentle lore, 
All that romance could yield of faiiy store. 
In vain ! she loved : — she loved, and from that 

hour 
Gone were the quiet loves of bird or flower ; 
The unread book dropp'd listless on her knee, 
The untouch'd lute hung on the bending tree, 
Whose un wreath' d boughs no more a pleasant 



For the lone dreamings of her twilight made. 
— Well might she love him: every eye was 

turn'd 
On that young knight, and bright cheeks 

brighter bum'd. 
Gave one, that grew the paler for his sake : 
Alas \ for her, whose heart but beat to break ; 
Who knew too well, not hers the hp or eye 
For which the youthful lover swears to die. 
How deep, how merciless, the love represt, 
That robs the silent midnight of its rest ; 
That sees in gather' d crowds but one alone ; 
That hears in mingled footsteps only one ; 
That turns the poet's page, to only find 
Some mournful image for itself design'd ; 
That seeks in music, but the plaining tone—— 
Which secret sorrow whispers is its own ! 
Alas for the young heart, when love is there. 
Its comrade and its confidant, despair ! 

How often leant in some unnoticed spot. 
Her very being by the throng forgot. 
Shrunk back to shun the glad lamp's mocking 

ray, 
Pass'd many a dark and weary hour away. 
Watching the young, the beautifiil, the bright, 
Seeming more lovely in that lonely Ught ; 
And as each fau- face ghded through the dance, 
Stealing at some near mirror one swift glance. 
Then, starting at the contrast, seek her room, 
To weep, at least, in solitude and gloom ! 
And he, her stately idol, he, with eye 
177 



landon's poems. 

Dark as the eagle's in a summer sky, 
And darker curls, amid whose raven shade 
The very wild wind amorously delay'd, 
With that bright smile, which makes all others 

dim, 
So proud, so sweet, — what part had she in him ? 
And yet she loved him: who may say, be still, 
To the fond heart that beats not at our will ? 
'Twas too much wretchedness : — the convent 

cell. 
There might the maiden with her misery dwelL 
And that, to-morrow was her chosen doom : 
There might her hopes, her feelings, find a 

tomb. 
Her feelings ! — ^no :— pray, struggle, weep, con- 
demn, — . 
Her feelings,— there was but one grave for them. 
'Twas her last night, and she had look'd her 

last, 
And she must live henceforward in the past. 
She linger' d in the hall, — he had been there , 
Her pale lips grew yet paler with the prayer 
That only ask'd his happiness. She took 
A blank leaf from an old emblazon'd book, 
Which told love's chronicles; a faint hope 

stole, — 
A sweet Ught o'er the darkness of her soul — 
Might she not leave remembrance, like the 

wreath. 
Whose dying flowers their scents on twilight 

breathe ; 
Just one faint tone of music, low and clear. 
Coming when other songs have left the ear ? 
Might she not tell him how she loved, and pray 
A mournful memory for some distant day ? 
She took the scroll : — what ! bare perhaps to 

scorn 
The timid sorrow she so long had borne ! 
Silent as death, she hid her fece, for shame 
In rushing crimson to her forehead came ; 
Through the small fingera fell the bitter rain, 
And tremblingly she closed the leaves again. 
178 



THE pirate's SOKG, 

-*-The hall is lit with fose, that morning hour, 
Whose Hghts are colour' d by each opening 

flower : 
A sweet bird by the casement sat and sang 
A song so glad, that like a laugh it rang, 
While its wings shook the jessamine, till the 

bloom 
Floated Uke incense round that joyous room, 
—They found the maiden : still her facq waa 

bow'd, 
As with some shame that might not be avow'd ; 
They raised the long hair which her face con« 

ceal'd,— 
And she is dead, — her secret unreveal'd. ' 



THE PIRATE'S SONG. 

To the mast nadi our flag, it is dark as the grave, 
Or the death which it bears while it sweeps 

o'er the wave. 
Let our decs clear for action, our guns be pre 

pared ; 
Be the boarding-axe sharpen'd, the cimetar 

bared ; 
Set the canisters ready, and then bring to me, 
For the last of my duties, the powder-room key. 
It shall never be lower' d, the black flag we bear ; 
If the sea be denied us, we sweep through the 



Unshared have we left our last victory's prey ; 
It is mine to divide it, and yours to obey. 
There are shawls that might suit a sultana's 

white neck, 
And pearls that are fah as the arms they will 

deck: 

179 



Landon's poems. 

There are flasks which, unseal them, the air 

will disclose 
Diametta's fair summer, the home of the rose. 
I claim not a portion ; I ask but as mine, 
'Tis to drink to our victory — one cup of red 

wine. 

Some fight, 'tis for riches ; some figkt, 'tis for 

fame ; 
The first, I despise, and the last is a name. 
I fight, 'tis for vengeance. 1 love to see flow, 
At the stroke of my sabre, the hfe of my foe. 
I strike for the memory of long vanish' d years ; 
I only shed blood, where another sheds tears. 
I come, as the hghtning comes red from above, 
O'er the race that I loathe, to the battle I love. 



THE CHURCHWARD. 

The shadow of the church falls o'er the ground, 

Hallowing its place of rest ; and here the dead 

Slumber, where all religious impulses. 

And sad and holy feelings, angel like, 

Make the spot sacred with themselves, and wake 

Those sorrowful emotions in the heart 

Which purify it, like a temple meet 

For an unearthly presence. Life, vain Life, 

The bitter and the worthless, wherefore here 

Do thy remembrances intrude % 

The willow shade is on the ground, 

A green and solitary shade ; 
And many a wild flower on that motmd 

Its pleasant summer home has made. 

And every breath that waves a leaf 
Flings down upon the lonely flowers 

A moment's sunshine, bright and brief— 
A blessing look'd by passing hours. 
180 



a?flE CHtTECHYAEl). 

Those sweet, vague sounds are on the air, 

Half sleep, half song— half false, half true, 
As if the wind that brought them there 

Had touch' d them with its music too. 
It is the very place to dream 

Away a twilight's idle rest; 
Where Thought floats down a starry streanij 

With a shadow on its breast. 

Where Wealth, the fairy gift's our own, 

Without its low and petty cares ; 
Where Pleasure some new veil has thrown, 

To hide the weary face she wears. 
Where hopes are high, yet cares come not, 

Those fellow- waves of life's drear sea, 
Its froth and depth — where Love is what 

Love only in a dream can be. 

I cannot muse beside that mound— 

I cannot dream beneath that shade-* 
Too solemn is the haunted ground 

Where Death his restingplace has made. 
I feel my heart beat but to think 

Each pulse is bearing life away ; 
I cannot rest upon the grave, 

And not feel kindred to its clay. 



There is a name upon the stone-— 

Alas ! and can it be the same— 
The young, the lovely, and the loved ? 

It is too soon to bear thy name. 
Too soon ! — O no, 'tis best to die 

Ere all of Ufe save breath is fled : 
Why live when feelings, friends, and hopes. 

Have long been number'd with the dead? 

But thou, thy heart and cheek were bright- 
No check, no soil had either known ; 

The angel natures of yon sky 
Will only be to thee thine own. 
16 181 



g„iSiJ»^sit&li2S^ 



LAJfDON's fOEMS, 

thou knew' St no rainbow hopes that weep 
Themselves away to deeper shade ; 

Nor Love, whose very happiness 
Should make the wakening heart afraid. 

The green leaves e'en in spring they fall, 

The tears the stars at midnight weep, 
The dewy wild-flowers— such as these 

Are fitting mourners o'er thy sleep. 
For human tears are lava-drops, 

That scorch and wither as they flow ; 
Then let them flow from those who live, 

And not for those who sleep below. 

O, weep for those whose silver chain 

Has long been loosed, and yet live oH^— 
The doom'd to drink of life's dark wave, 

Whose golden bowl has long been gone! 
Ay, weep for those, the wearied, worn, 

Dragg'd downward by some earthly tie, 
By some vain hope, some Vainer love, 

Who loathe to hve, yet fear to die. 



THE CHURCH AT POLIGNAC. 

*• 

Kneel down in yon chapel, but only one 

prayer 
Should awaken the echoes its tall arches bear 5 
Pale mother, pray not for the child on the bed. 
For the sake of the prisoner let matins be said 5 
Old man, though the shade of thy gravestone 

be nigh, 
Yet not for thyself raise thy voice to the sky ; 
Young maiden there kneeling, with blush and 

with tear. 
Name not the one name to thy spirit most dear. 
The prayer for another, to Heaven addrest. 
Comes back to the breather thrice blessing and 

blest. 

182 



DURHAM CATHEDRAL. 

Beside the damp marsh, rising sickly and cold, 
Stand the bleak and stern walls of the dark 

prison-hold ; 
There fallen and friendless, forlorn and opprest, 
Are they — once the flatter' d, obey'd, and 

carest. 
From the blessings that God gives the poorest 

exiled. 
His wife is a widow, an orphan his child ; 
For years there the prisoner has wearily pined. 
Apart from his country, apart from his kind ; 
Amid millions of freemen, one last lonely slave, 
He knoweth the gloom, not the peace of the 

grave. 
I plead not their errors, my heart's in the 

cause, 
Which bows down the sWord with the strength 

of the laws ; 
But France, while witlim her such memories' 

live. 
With her triumphs around, can afford to forgive. 
Let freedom, while raising her glorious brow, 
Shake the tears from her laurels that darken 

there now, 
Be the chain and the bar from yon prison 

removed, 
Give the children their parents, the wife her be- 
loved. 
By the heart of the many is pardon assign'd, 
For, Mercy, thy cause is the cause of mankind. 



DURHAM CATHEDRAL. 

Those dark and silent sdsles are fill'd with 
night. 
There breathes no murmur, and there shinea 

no Ught ; 
The graves beneath the pavement yield their 
gloom, 

183 



landon's poems. 

'Till the cathedral seems one mighty tomb. 

The Cross invisible — the words unseen 

That tell where Faith and Hope in death have 

been. 
But day is breaking, and a rosy smile 
Colours the depths of each sepulchral aisle. 
The orient windows kindle with the morn, 
And 'mid the darkness are their rainbows born ; 
Each ray that brightens, and each hue that 

falls, 
Attest some sacred sign upon the walls ; — 
Some sculptured saint's pale head — some graven 

line 
Of promise, precept, or beUef divine: 
Then sounds arise, the echoes bear along 
Through the resounding aisles the choral song. 
The billowy music of the organ sweeps 
Like the vast anthem of uplifted deeps ; 
The bells ring forth — the long dark night is 

done, 
The sunshine of the Sabbathi, is begun. 

What is tliat temple but a type sublime ! 
Such was the moral night of ancient time ; 
Cold and obscure, in vain the king and aa^e 
Gave law and learning to the darken'd age. 
There was no present faith, no future hope. 
Earth bounded then the earth-drawn horo 

scope ; 
Till to the east there came the promised star- 
Till rose the Sun of Righteousness afar — 
Till, on a world redeem'd, the Saviour shone, 
Earth for his footstool — Heaven for his throne. 
184 



CALDRON SNOUT. 

WESTMOEELAIfD. 



A. PLACE of lugged rocks, adown whose sides 
The mountain torrent rushes ; on whose crags 
The raven builds her nest, and tells her young 
Of former funeral feasts, j 



Long- years have past since last I stood 
Alone amid this mountain scene, 

Unlike the future which I dream' d 
How like my future it has been ! 

A cold gray sky o'erhung with clouds, 
With showers in every passing shade, 

How like the moral atmosphere 
Whose gloom my horoscope has made ! 

I thought if yet my weary feet 

Could rove my native hills again, 
A world of feeling would revive, 

Sweet feeUngs wasted, worn in vain. 
My early hopes, my early joys, 

I dream' d those valleys would restore ; 
I ask'd for childhood to return. 

For childhood, which returns no more. 

Surely the scene itself is changed ! 

There did not always rest as now 
That shadow in the valley's depth, 

That gloom upon the mountain's brow. 
Wild flowers within the chasms dwelt 

Like treasures in some fairy hold, 
And morning o'er the mountains shed 

Her kindling world of vapory gold. 
16* 185 



landon's poems^. 

Another season of the year 
Ts now upon the earth and mo ; 

Another spring will light these hills- 
No other spring mine own may be : 

1 must retune my unstrung heart, 
I must awake the sleeping tomb, 

I must recall the loved and lost, 
Ere spring again for me could bloom. 

I've wander'd, but it was in vain 

In many a far and foreign clime. 
Absence is not forgetfulness. 

And distance cannot vanquish time. 
One face was ever in my sight, 

One voice was ever on my ear, 
From all earth's loveliness I turn'd 

To wish, ah I that the dead were here ! 

! weary wandering to no home, 
O ! weary wandering alone, 

1 turn'd to childhood's once glad scenes 
And found life's last illusion flown. 

Ah ! those who left their childhood's scenes 
For after years of toil and pain, 

Who but bring back the breaking heart 
Should never seek those scenes again. 



CHRIST BLESSING THE BREAD. 

"This do in remembrance of me. 

"This cup is the new testament in my blood, 
which is shed for you." St. Luke xxii. 19, 20. 

" And as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and 
blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, 
and said, Take, eat ; this is my body. 

"And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave 
it to them, saying, Drink ye all of it : 

" For this is my blood of the new testament, which 
is ahed for many for the remission of sins. 
186 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 

"But I say unto you, 1 will not drink henceforth 
of this fruit of the vine, until that day when I drink 
it new with you in my Father's kingdom." St 
Matthew xxvi. 26 — ^29. 

Bow thee to earth, and from thee cast 

All stubbornness of human will ; 
Then dare to drink the sacred cup 

Thy God and Saviour died to fill. 

If thou art humble as a child, 
When lisping at his mother's knee, 

His first meek words of earnest prayer, 
That sacred cup may bei for thee. 

But if within thy sinful heart, 
Lurk earthly crime or earthly care, 

If hate, which broods upon the past 
Or pleasure's feverish dream, be there, 

If thou against the widow's prayer. 
Or orphan's cry, hast closed thine ear ; 

In mercy to thyself forbear, 
Drink not thine own destruction here : 

But from thee put all thoughts of earth, 
As erst from Israel's camp were flung 

Each worldly and unholy thing, 
To which the secret sinner clung. 

Come with thy guilt new wash'd in tears, 

Thy spirit raised in faith above ; 
Then drink, and so thy soul shall Uve, 

Thy Saviour's blood — thy Saviour's love. 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 

The vessel swept in with the light of the mom , 
High on the red air its gonfalon borne ; 
The roofs of the dwellings, the sails of the mast 
Mix'd in the crimson the daybreak had cast. 
187 



landon's poems. 

On came the Vessel :— the sword in his hand, 
At once from the deck leapt a stranger to land. 
A moment he stood, with the wind in his hair, 
The smishine less golden — the silk was less fair; 

He look'd o'er the waters — ^what Ibok'd hfi" 
to see ! 
What alone in the depths of his owii heart 

could be. 
He saw an old castle arise irom the main, 
The oak on its hills, and the deer on hs pMil. 

He saw it no longer ; the vision is fled 
I'aler the prest lip, and firmer the tread. 
He takes from his neck a light scarf that ho 

wore ; 
'Tis flung on the waters that bear it from shore. 

Twas the gift of a false one ; and with it he 

flung 
\,11 the hopes and the fancies that round it had 

clung. 
The shrine has his vow — ^the Cross has his 

brand; 
He weareth no ^t of a woman's white hand. 

A seal on his lip, and an oath at his heart. 
His future a warfare — he knoweth his part. 
The visions that haunted his boyhood are o'er, 
The young knight of Malta can dream them no 
more. 

188 



CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE 
CHILDREN. 



*' Suffer litle children to come unto me— for of such 
to the kingdom of heaven." 

St. Matthew xix. 14. 



Ip ever in the human heart 

A fitting season there can be, 
Worthy of its immortal part, 

Worthy. O blessed Lord, of thee; 

'Tis in that yet unsullied hour, 

Or ere the world has claim'd his own ; ' 
Pure as the hues within the flower. 

To summer and the sun unknown ; 

When still the youthful spirit bears 

The image of its God within. 
And uneffaced that beauty wears. 

So soon to be destroy'd by sin. 

Then is the time for faith and love 
To take in charge their precious care. 

Teach the young eye to look above. 
Teach the young knee to bend in prayer. 

This work is ours — this charge was thine. 
These youthful souls from sin to save ; 

To lead them in thy faith divine, 
And teach its triumph o'er the grave. 

The world will come with care and crime, 
And tempt too many a heart astray ; 
189 



landon's poems. 

Still the seed sown in early time 
Will not be wholly cast away. 

The infant prayer, the infant hymn, 
Within the darken' d soul will rise. 

When age's weary eye is dim, 
And the grave's shadow round us hes. 

The infant hymn is heard again. 

The infant prayer is breathed once more, 
Reclasping of a broken chain, 

We turn to all we loved before. 

Lord, grant our hearts be so inclined, 
Thy work to seek — thy will to do ; 

And while we teach the youthful mind, 
Our own be taught thy lessons too. 



DERWENT WATER. 

I KNEW her — though she used to make 
Her dwelUng by that lonely lake. 
A little while she came to show 
How lovely distant flowers can go. 
The influence of that fairy scene 
Made beautiful her face and mien. 
I have seen faces far more fair. 
But none that had such meaning there. 
For to her downcast eyes were given 
The azure of an April heaven ; 
The softening of those sunny hours, 
By passing shadows and by showers. 

O'er her cheek the wandering red, 
By the first wild rose was shed. 
Evanescent, pure, and clear. 
Just the warm heart's atmosphere. 
190 



A JflGHT tn MAY. 

Like the sweet and inner world, 
In that early rosebud furled. 
All whose rich revealings glow 
Round the lovelier world below. 
Light her step was, and her voice 
Said unto the air, rejoice ; 
And her light laugh's silvery breaking 
Sounded like the lark's first waking. 

Return to that fair lake, return, 

On whose green heathlands grows the fern ; 

And mountain heights of dark gray stone, 

Are bright with lichens overgrown. 

Thou art too fay-like and too fair 

For our more common clouded air. 

Beauty such as thine belongs 

To a world of dreams and songs | 

Let thy image with us dwell 

Lending music to farewell. 



A NIGHT IN MAY. 

A night not sacred to Spring's opening leaveBj 
But one of crowded festival. 

Light and glad through the rooms the gay 
music is waking, 
Where the young and the lovely are gather' d 
to-night ; 
And the soft cloudless lamps, with their lustre 
are making 
A midnight hour only than morning less 
bright. 

There are vases, — the flowers within them are 
breathing 
Sighs almost as sweet as the lips that are neai 
Light feet are glancing, white arms are wreath- 
ing,— 
O temple of pleasure! thou surely art here. 
191 



lanSon's poems. . 

I gazed on the scene; 'twas the dream of a 
minute ; 
B^ut it seem'd to me even as fairy land fair : 
'Twas tlie cup's bright inside ; and on glancing 
within it, 
What but the ^-egs and the darkness Were 
there ? 

-False wave of the desert, thou art less be- 
guiling 
Than false beauty over the lighted hall shed : 
What but the smiles that have practised their 
smiling, 
Or honey words measured, and reckon'd aa 
said? 

O, heart of mine ! turn from the revellers before 
thee; 
What part hast thou in them, or have they in 
thee? 
What was the feeling that too soon came o'er 
thee ! — 
Weariness ever that feeling must be. 

Praise — flattery — opiates the meanest, yel 
sweetest. 
Are ye the fame that my spirit hath dream' d f 
Lute, when in such scenes, if homage thou 
meetest, 
Say, if like glory such vanity seem'd ? 

O for some island far off in the ocean, 
Where never a footstep has press' d but mine 
own: 
With one hope, one feeling, one utter devotion 
To my gift of song, once more, the lovely, 
the lone ! 



My heart is too much in the things which pro- 
fane it ; 
The cold, and the worldly, why am I like 
them ? 

192 



A NIGHT IN MAT. 

Vanity ! with my lute chofds I must chain It, 
Nor thus let it sully the minstrel's best gem. 

It rises before me, that island, where blooming, 

The flowers in their thousands are comrades 

for me , 

And where if one perish, so sweet its entombing 

The welcome it seems of fresh leaves to the 

tree. 

['11 wander among them when morning is 
weeping 
Her earliest tears, if such pearls can be tears ; 
When the birds and the roses together are 
sleeping 
Till the mist of the daybreak, like hope ful- 
fill'd, clears. 

Grove of dark cypress, when noontide is flinging 
Its radiance of light, thou shalt then be my 
shrine; 
I'll listen to the song which the wild dove is 
singing, 
And catch from its sweetness a lesson for 
mine. 

And when the red sunset at even is dying, 
I'll watch the last blush as it fades on the 
wave; 
While the wind, through the shells in its lew 
music sigHng, 
Will seem like the anthem peai'd over its 
prove. 

And when the bright stars which I worship are 
beaming, 
And writing in beauty and fate on the sky, 
Then, mine own lute, be the hour of thy dream- 
ing, 
And the night-flowers will open and echo thy 
sigh. 
1.7 193 



landon's poems. 

Alas! but my dream has like sleep's vision? 
vanish' d ; 
The hall and the crowd are before me again : 
Sternly my sweet thoughts like fairies are 
banish' d: 
Nay, the faith which believed in them nov» 
seems but vain. 

I left the gay circle : — ^if I found it dreary, 
Were all others there, then, the thoughtless 
and glad ? 
Methinks that fair cheek in its paleness look'd 
weary, 
Methinks that dark eye in its drooping waa 
sad. 

— I went to my chamber, — ^I sought to b« 
lonely, — ■ 

I leant by the casement to catch the sweet air • 
The thick tears fell blinding ; and am I then only 

Sad, weary, although without actual care f 

The heart hathitei mystery, and who may revea! 
it; 

Or who ever read in the depths of their own f 
How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it, 

But, even in feeling it, know it miknown ! 

Sky of vdld beauty, in those distant ages 
Of which time hath left scarce a wreck oj 
a name, 
}3ay were thy secrets laid bare to the sages, 
Who held that the stars were Ufe's annals of 
flame? 



L^pirit, that ruleth man's life to its ending. 
Chance, Fortune, Fate, answer my sum- 
moning now ; 
The storm o'er the face of the night is descend. 

ing,— 
Fair moon, the dark clouds hide thy silvery 
brow. 



X NIGHT IN MAT. 

Let these bring thy answer, and tell me if sadnesa 

Forever man's penance and portion must be ; 

Doth the morning come forth from a birthplace 

of gladness ? 
Is there peace, is there rest, in thine empire 

or thee ? 

Spirit of fate, from yon troubled west leaning. 
As its meteor-piled rack were thy home and 

thy shrine, 
Grief is our knowledge, 'twill teach me thy 

meaning, 
Although thou but speak' st it in silence and 

sign. 

I mark'd a soft arch sweep its way over heaven ; 
It spann'd as it ruled the fierce storm which 
it bound : 
The moonshine, the shower, to its influence 
seem'd given, 
And the black clouds grew blight in the 
beautiful round. 

I look'd out again, but few hues were remaining 
On the side nearest earth; while I gazed, 
they were past : 
As a steed for a time with its curb proudly 
straining. 
Then freed in its strength came the tempest 
at last. 

And this was the sign of thy answer, dark spirit ! 

Alas ! and such ever our pathway appears ; 
Tempest and change still our earth must in- 
herit, — 
Its glory a shade, and its loveliness tears. 
195 



THE WIDOW'S MITE. 

It is the fruit of waking hours 

When others are asleep, 
When moaning round the low thatch'd x(x^ 

The winds of winter creep. 

It is the fruit of summer daya 

Past in a gloomy room, 
When others are abroad to taste 

The pleasant morning bloom. 

'Tis given from a scanty store 

And miss'd while it is given ; 
' Tis given — for the claims of earth 

Are less than those of heaven. 

Few save the poor feel for the poor. 

The rich know not how hard 
It is to be of needful food 

And needful rest debsorr'd. 

Then* paths are paths of plenteousnessi 
They sleep on silk and down, 

And never think how heavily 
The weary head lies down. 

They know not of the scanty meal 
With small pale faces round ; 

No fire upon the cold, damp heartb. 
When snow is on the ground. 

They never by their vraidow sit, 

And see the gay pass by ; 
Yet take their weary work ag£un. 

Though with a mournful eye. 
196 



ESKDALE, dUMBEBLAND. 

Tho rich, they give — they miss it not 

A blessing cannot be 
Like that which rests, thou widow'd one. 

Upon thy gift and thee I 



ESKDALE, CUMBERLAND. 

O ! no: I do not wish *o see 
The sunshine o'er th«se hills again; 

Their quiet beauty wakes in me 
"A thousand wishes wild and vain. 

I hear the skylark's matin songs 
Breathe of the heaven he singeth near ; 

Ah ! heaven, that to our earth belongs. 
Why is thy hope so seldom here ? 

The grass is fill'd vnth early flowers, 
Whereon the dew is scarcely dry ; 

While singing to the silent hours. 
The glittering waves are murmuring by. 

And fancies from afar are brought 
By magic lights and wandering wind ; 

Such scene hath poet never sought, 
But he hath left his heart behind. 

It is too sad to feel how blest 
In such a spot might be our home ; 

And then to think with what unrest 
Throughout this weary world we roam. 
17* 197 



THE 

INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS. 

<♦ For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man 
as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and 
the flower thereof falleth away. 

♦' But the word of th&Lord endureth forever." 
1 PETEBi. 24,25. 

Sweet Lord, as in those infant hands 

Are heap'd up early flowers, 
Gather'd with toil, and wreath'd with care 

The wealth of summer hours. 

Go gather thou, amid our thoughts. 

The purest and the best ; 
The few that, in our busy world, 

Are heavenward addrest. 

So forming in the human soul 

Thine own immortal wreath. 
Of sacred hopes, nurst in thy faith, 

To blossom after death. 



THE PHANTOM. 

1 COME from my home in the depth of the sea, 
I come that "thy dreams may be haimted by 

me; 
Not as we parted, the rose on my brow, 
But shadowy, silent, 1 visit thee now. 
The time of our parting was when the moon 

ehone, 

198 



THE PHANTOM. 

Of all heaven's daughters the loveliest one ; 
No cloud in her presence, no star at her side, 
She smiled on her mirror and vassal, the tide. 
Unbroken its silver, undream'd of its swell, 
There was hope, and not fear, in our midnight 

farewell ; 
While drooping around were the wings white 

and wild. 
Of the ship that was sleeping, as slumbers a 

child. 
I turn'd to look from thee, to look on the 

bower, 
Which thou hast been training in sunshine and 

shower ; 
So thick were the green leaves, the sun and the 

rain 
Sought to pierce through the shelter from sum- 
mer in vain. 

It was not its ash tree, the home of the wren. 
And the haunt of the bee, I was thinking of 

then ; 
Nor yet of the violets, sweet on the air. 
But I thought of the true love who planted thera 

there. 
I come to thee now, my long hair on the gale, 
It is wreath'd with no red rose, is bound with 

no veil, 
It is dark vsrith the sea damps, and wet with the 

spray, 
The gold of its aubiurn has long past away. 

And dark is the cavern wherein I have slept, 
There the seal and the dolphin their vigil have 

kept; 
And the roof is incrusted with white coral cells, 
Wherein the strange insect that buildeth them 

dwells. 
There is life in the shells that are strew'd o'er 

the sands. 
Not fill' d but with music as on our own strands ; 
199 



London's poems. 

Around me are whitening the bones of the 

dead, 
And a starfish has grown to the rock overhead. 

Sometimes a vast shadow goes darkly along, 

The shark or the sword-fish, the fearfiil and 
strong : 

There is fear in the eyes that are glaring around, 

Aa they pass like the spectres of death withou . 
sound : 

Over rocks, without summer, the dull sea- 
weeds trail. 

And the blossoms that hang there are scentless 
and pale ; 

Amid thek dark garlands, the water-snakes 
ghde, 

And the sponge, like the moss, gathers thick 
at their side. 

O ! would that the sunshine could fall on my 

grave. 
That the wild flower and willow could over it 

wave; 
! would that the daisies grew over my sleep, 
That the tears of the morning could over me 

weep. 
Thou art pale 'mid the dreams, I shall trouble 

no more. 
The sorrow that kept me firom slumber is o'er ; 
To the depths of the ocean in peace I depait. 
For I still have a grave greener far in thy 

heart \ 



STRADA REALE— CORFU. 

I AM weary of the greenwood 
Where haunteth the wild bee. 
And the olive's silvery foliage 
Droops o'er the myrtle tree. 
200 



THE LAKE OF COMO. 

The fountain singeth silvery. 
As witii a sleepy song, 
It wandereth the bright mosses, 
And drooping flowers among. 

I will seek the cheerful city, 
And in the crowded street, 
See if I can find the traces 
Of pleasure's winged feet. 

The bells are ringing gayly, 
And their music gladdens all, 
From the towers in the sunshine, 
To the date and orange stall. 

Gay voices are around me, 
I seem to gladden too ; 
And a thousand changing objects 
Win my wandering eyes anew. 

It is pleasant through the city 
In a sunny day to roam ; 
And yet my full heart turns to thee. 
My own, my greenwood home. 



THE LAKE OF COMO. 

' Again I am beside the lake. 
The lonely lake which used to be 
The wide world of the beating heart 
When I was, love, with thee. 

I see the quiet evening lights 
Amid the distant mountains shine ; 
I hear the music of a lute, 
It used to come from thine. 

How can another sing the song. 
The sweet sad song that was thine owe I 
It is alike, yet not the same, 
It has not caught thy tone. 
201 



landon's poems. 

Ah, never other lip may catch 

The sweetness round thine own that clung ; 

To me there is a tone unheard, 'j 

There is a chord unstrung. 

Thou loveliest lake, I sought thy shores. 
That dreams from other days might cast, 
The presence elsewhere sought in vain. 
The presence of the past. 

I find the folly of the search. 
Thou bringest but half the past again ; 
My pleasure calling faintly back 
Too vividly my pain. 

Too real the memories that haunt 
The purple shadows round thy brink— 
_I only ask'd of thee to dream, 
I did not ask to think. 

False beauty haunting still my heart, 
Though long since from that heart remove<t 
These waves but tell me how thou wert 
Too well and vainly loved. 

Fair lake, it is all vain to seek 
The influence of thy lonely shore— 
I ask of thee for hope and love — 
They come to me no more. 



THE PRINCESS VICTORIA. 

A FAIR young face o'er which is only cast 
The delicate hues of spring. 
Though round her is the presence of the past, 
And the stern future gathers darkly fast ; 
As yet no heavy shadow loads their wing. 
202 



THE PRINCESS VICTOEIA. 

A Kttle while hast thou to be a child, 
Thy lot is all too high ; 
Thy face is very fair, thine eyes are mild, 
But duties on thine arduous path are piled — 
A nation's hopes and fears blend with thj 
destiny. 

Change is upon the world, it may be thine 
To SDOthe its troubled way. 
To make thy throne a beacon and a shrine 
Whence knowledge, power, and liberty msy 

shine, 
As yet they have not shone on mortal day. 

There is much misery on this worn earth, 
But much that may be spared : 
Of great and generous thought there is no dearth. 
And highest hopes of late have had their birth, 
Hopes for the many, what the few have shared. 

The wind that bears our flag from soil to soil, 
Teaches us as it flies ; 
It carries in its breath a summer spoil, 
And seeds spring up to stimulate man's toil. 
So should our mind spread round its rich sup. 
plies. 

Thou, royal child, the future is thine own, 

May it be bless' d in thee ! 

May peace that smiles on all be round thj 

throne 
And universal truth, whose light alone 
Gives golden records unto history. 

203 



A LEGEND OF TEIGNMOUTH. 

A sTORT of the olden time, wben hearts 
Wore truer fiiith than now — a carved stone 
Is in a little ancient church which stands 
'Mid yonder trees, 'tis now almost defaced ; 
But careful eye may trace the mould'ring lines. 
And kind tradition has preserved the tale; 
I tell it nearly in the very words 
Which are the common legend. 

Some few brief hours, my gallant bark. 

And we shall see the shore ; 
My native, and my beautifiil, ♦ 

That I will leave no more. 

And gallantly the white sails swept 

On, on before the wind ; 
The prow dash'd through the foam and left 

A sparkling line behind. 

The sun look'd out through the blue sky, 

A gladsome summ«r sun ; 
The white cliffs like his mirrors show 

Their native land is won. 

And gladly from the tall ship's side 

Sir Francis hail'd the land, 
And gladly in his swiftest boat, 

Row'd onward to the strand. 

" I see my fether's castle walls 

Look down upon the sea ; 
The red wine will flow there to-night 

And all for love of me. 
204 



A LSGEND OF tfilGNMOUTH. 

' ' I left a gentle maiden there : 

For all the tales they say 
Of Woman's wrong and faithlessness 

To him who is away ; 

" I'll wager on her lily hand, 

Where's still a golden ring; 
But, lady, 'tis a plainer one 

That o'er the seaa I bring." 

His bugle sound the turret swept 

They met him in the hall ; 
But 'mid dear faces where is hers, 

The dearest of them all f 

Ah ! every brow is dark and sad, 

And every voice is low ; 
His bosom beats not as it beat 

A little while ago. 

They lead him to a darken'd room, 

A heavy pall they, raise ; 
A fiice looks forth as beautiful 

As in its living days. 

A ring is yet upon the hand, 

Sir Francis, worn for thee. 
Alas ! that such a clay-cold hand, 

Should true love's welcome be ! 

He kiss'd that pale and lovely month, 

He laid her in the grave ; 
And then again Sir Francis sail'd 

Far o'er the ocean wave. 

To east and west, to north and south, 

That mariner was known ; 
A wanderer bound to many a shore. 

But never to his own, 
18 205 






la«-©ok's poems. 

At length the time appointed came, 
He knew that it was come ; 

With pallid brow and wasted frames 
That mariner sought ^ome. 

The worn-otit vessel reach' d the shore, 
The v»eary sails sank down ; 

The seamen clear' d her of the apoila 
From many an Indian town. 

And then Sir Francis fired the ship 3 

Yet tears were in his eyes, 
When the last blaze of those old planks 

Died in the midnight skies. 

Next morning, 'twas a Sabbath morn, 
They sought that church to pray ; 

And cold beside his maiden's tomb 
The brave Sir Francis lay. 

O, Death ! the pit3dng that restored 

The lover to his bride ; 
Once more the marble was unclosed, 

They laid him at her side. 

And still the evening sunshine shedd 

Its beauty o'er that tomb ; 
Like heaven's own hope, to mitigate 

Earth's too unkindly doom. 



AIREY FORCE. 

Aye, underneath yon shadowy side, 
1 could be fain to fix my home ; 

Where dashes down the torrent's pride. 
In sparkling wave, and silver foam, 
206 



HEBK. 

No other sound is waking there, 
But that perpetual voice, which seema 

Like spirit music on the air, 
An echo from the wodd of dreams. 

They were more wise in other days ; 

Then turn'd the hermit to his cell, 
And left a world where all betrays, 

Apart with his own thoughts to dwelL 

Content to curb the heart, to be 
Indifferent, quiet, moumfiil, cold 

With hopes turn'd into memory, 
With feelings that had lost their hold. 

Far better this, than such vain life> 
As is in crowded cities known ; 

Where care, repining, grief, and stnfe. 
Make every passing hour their own. 

There, by yon torrent's rushing wave, 
I'd pass what yet of time remain' d 

And feel the quiet of the grave 
Long ere that grave itself were gain'd. 



HEBE. 



JTouTH ! thou art a lovely time. 
With thy wild and dreaming eye* 

Looking onwards to their prime, 
Colour'd by their April skies. 

Yet I do not wish for thee. 

Pass, O ! quickly pass from me. 

Thou hast all too much unrest. 
Haunted bv vain hopes and fears ; 
207 



landon's poems. 

Though thy cheek with smiles be drasl, 

Yet that cheek is wet with tears. 
Bitter are the frequent showers, 
Falling in thy sunny hours. 

Let my heart grow calm and cold, 
Calm to sorrow, cold to love ; 

Let affections loose their hold, 
Let my spirit look above. 

I am weary — youth pass on, 

All thy dearest gifts are gone. 

She in whose sweet form the Greek 
Bade his loveliest vision dwell ; 

She of yon bright cup and cheek. 
From her native heaven fell : 

Type of what may never last, 

Soon the heaven of youth is past. 

O ! farewell — ^for never more 
Can thy dreams again be mine ; 

Hope and truth and faith are o'er. 
And the heart which was their shriae 

Has no boon of thee to seek. 

Asking but to rest or break. 



THE HINDOO MOTHER. 

She leaves it to the sacred stream, 

She leaves it to the tide. 
Her little child — her darling one. 

And she has none beside. 

She used to sit beneath the palm, 

Her boy upon her knee ; 
And dreaming of the future years, 

That were his own to be : 

208 



THE HINDOO MOTHER. 

She saw him with a stately steed, 

The sabre in his hand ; 
His pistols gleaming at his waist, 

TLe foremost of his band : 

She saw him with his father's smile, 

Beside some maiden dear ; 
She smiled to hear familiar words ! 

Alaa ! and is he here ? 

The light has vanish'd from her day, 
The hope gone from her heart ; 

The young, the bright, and the beloved, 
O ! how could he depart ? 

No more hia sunny smile will make 
Her own, her household hght ; 

No more will her sweet voice be heard. 
Above his sleep at night. 

Her heart and home are desolate. 

But for one dearest tie ; 
But for the father of her child, 

She would lay down and die. 

The tide rolls on beneath the moon, 

Down to the mighty main; 
To-morrow may the mother seek. 

And seek her child in vain. 
18* 209 



THE CITY CHURCHYARD. 



If there be one object more material, more revolt- 
ing, more gloomy than another, it is a crowded 
churchyard in a city. It has neither sympathy no? 
memory. The pressed-down stones lie heavy upon 
the very heart. The sunshine cannot get at them 
for smoke. There is a crowd ; and, like most crowds, 
there is no companionship. Sympathy is the softener 
of death, and memory of the loved and the lost is 
the earthly shadow of their immortality. But who 
turns aside amid those crowds that hurry through 
the thronged and noisy streets ? — No one can love 
London better than I do ; but never do I wish to be 
buried there. It is the best place in the world for a 
house, and the worst for a grave. An Irish patriot 
once candidly observed to me, " Give me London to 
live in; but let me die in green Ireland:" — noW| 
this is precisely my opinion. 

I PBAY thee lay me not to rest 
Among these mouldering bones 

Too heavily the earth is prest 
By all these crowded stones. 

Life is CM) gay — ^life is too near— 

With all its pomp and toil ; 
^ pray thee, do not lay me here, 

In such a world struck soil. 



'he ceaseless roll of wheels would wake 

The slumbers of the dead ; 
. cannot bear for life to make 

Its pathway o'er my head. 

The flags around are cold and dreai 
They stand apart, alone ; 
210 



THE CITY CHURCHYARD. 

And no one ever pauses here, 
To sorrow for the gone. 

No : lay me in the far green fields 
The summer sunshine cheers ; 

And where the early wild flower yields 
The tribute of its tears ; 

Where shadows the sepulchral yew, 
Where droops the willow tree ; 

Where the long grass is fill'd with dew- 
O i make such grave for me ! 

And passers-by, at evening's close, 
Will pause beside the grave. 

And moraUze o'er the repose 
They fear, and yet they crave. 

Perhaps some Kindly hand may bring 

Its offering to the tomb ; 
And say, as fades the rose in spring. 

So fadeth human bloom. 

But here there is no kindly thought 

To soothe, and to reUeve ; 
No fancies and no flowers are brought, 

That soften while they grieve. 

Here Poesy and Love come not— 

It is a world of stone ; 
The grave is bought — ^is closed — ^forgot ' 

And then life hurries on. 

Sorrow, and beauty — nature — love 
Redeem man's common breath ; 

Ah ! let them shed the grave above- 
Give loveliness to death. 
211 



FOUNTAIN'S ABBEY." 

Alas, alas ! those ancient towers, 
Where never now the vespers ring, 

But lonely at the midnight hours, 
Flits by the bat on dusky wingi 

, No more beneath the moonlight dim, 

No more beneath the planet ray, 
Those arches echo with the hymn 
That bears life's meaner carea away. 

No more within some cloister' d cell. 
With windows of the sculptured stone. 

By sign of cross, and sound of bell. 
The world-worn heart can beat alone. 

How needful some such tranquil place, 

Let many a weary one attest, 
Who turns from life's impatient race, 

And asks for nothing but for rest. 

How many, too heart-sick to roam, 
Still longer o'er the troubled wave. 

Would thankful turn to such a home — - 
A home already half a grave. 

* The remains of Fountain's Abbey are considered 
the finest in England. The cloisters are a vast 
extent of straight vault, three hundred feet long, and 
forty-two broad ; divided lengthways by nineteen 
pillars and twenty arches; each pillar divides Into 
eight ribs at the top, which diverge and intersect 
«ach other on the roof. Here is a large stone basin, 
the remains of a fountain. 
212 



IMMOLATION OF A HINDOO 
WIDOW. 

Gather her raven hair in one rich cluster, 
Let the white champac light it, as a star 
Gives to the dusky night a sudden lustre. 

Shining afar 

Shed fragrant oils upon her fragrant bosom. 
Until the breathing air around grows sweet ; 
Scatter the languid jasmine's yellow blossom. 
Beneath her feet 

Those small white feet are bare— too soft are 

they 
To tread on aught but flowers ; and there ia 

roU'd 
Round the slight ankle, meet for such display, 
The band of gold. 

Chedns and bright stones are on her arms and 

neck; 
What pleasant vanities are link'd with them, 
Of happy hours, which youth delights to deck 
With gold and gem. 

She comes ! So comes the Moon, when has she 

found 
A silvery path wherein through heaven to 

ghde? 
Fling the wMte veil — a summer cloud — around ; 
She is a bride ! 

And yet the crowd that gather at her side 
Are pale, and every gazer holds his breath. 
Eyes fill with tears unbidden, for the bride — 
The bride of death I 
213 



LANDON'S POEMS. 

She gives away the garland from her hair, 
She gives the gems that she will wear no more ; 
All the affections, whose love-signs they were, 
Are gone before. 

The red pile blazes — let the bride ascend. 
And lay her head upon her husband's heart. 
Now in a perfect unison to blend — 

No more to part. 



THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. 



There is a little lonely grave 

Which no one comes to see. 
The foxglove and red orchis wave 

Their welcome to the bee. 
There never falls the morning sun. 

It lies beneath the wall. 
But there when weary day is done 

The lights of sunset fall, 
Flushing the warm and crimson air 
Aa life and hope were present there. 

There eleepeth one who left his heart 

Behind him in his song ; 
Breathing of that diviner part 

Which must to heaven belong. 
The language of those spirit chords. 

But to the poet known. 
Youth, love, and hope yet use his worda,. 

They seem to be his own. 
And yet he has not left a name, 
The poet died without his fame. 

How many are the lovely lays 
That haunt our English tongue, 

Defrauded of their poet's praise 
Forgotten he who sung. 
2U 



*SE WOODLAND BBOOK. 

Tradition only vaguely keeps 
Sweet fancies round this tomb j 

Its tears are what the wild flower weeps 
Its record is that bloom 5 

Ah, surely nature keeips with her 

The memory of her worshipper. 

One of her loveliest mysteries 

Such spirit blends at last, 
With all the fairy fantasies 

Which o'er some scenes are cast. 
A softer beauty fills the grove, 

A light is in the grass, 
A deeper sense of truth and love 

Comes o'er us as we pass ; 
While lingers in the heart one line, 
The nameless poet hath ashrine* 



THE WOODLAND BROOK. 

Thou art flowing, thou art flowing, 
O, small and silvery brook ; 

The rushes by thee growing, 
And with a patient look 

The pale narcissus o'er thee bends 

Like one who asks in vain for friendu. 

I bring not back my childhood. 
Sweet comrade of its hours j 

The music of the wild wood. 
The colour of the flowers ; 

They do not bring again the dream 

That haunted me beside thy Btream. 

When black-letter'd old romances 
Made a world for me alone ; 

O, days of lovely fancies. 
Are ye forever flown ? 
215 



LANUOn'S POfiMS. 

Ye are fled, sweet, vague, and vaifl, 
So I cannot dream again. 

1 have left a feverish pillow 

For thy soothing song 5 
Alas, each fairy billow 

An image bears along, 
Look where 1 will, 1 only see 
One face too much beloved by rhe. 

In vain my heart remembefa 
What pleasure used to be. 

My past thoughts are but embers 
Consumed by love for thee. 

I wish to love thee less — and feel 

A deeper fondness o'er me steal. 



REBECCA. 

She looketh on the glittering scene 

With an unquiet eye ; 
The shadow of the wakening heart 

Is passing darkly by. 
The heart that is a woman's world. 

Her temple and he.r home. 
Which coloureth with itself her cares, 

Whence all her joys must come. 

All generous feelings nursed the love 

That out of pity came ; 
Womanly kindness, suffering truth. 

Might sanctify its claim. 
But better had she shared the doom, 

She bade from him depart ; 
Death has no bitterness Uke life, 

Life with a wasted heart. 
216 



1 



THE MISSIONART. 

Proud— beautiful — she boweth down 
Beneath one deep despair ; 

Youth lingers lovely on her cheek, 
It only lingers there. 

She will command herself and bear 
The doom by fate assign'd ; 

In natures high as hers, the heart 
Is master' d by the mind. 

But not the less 'tis desolate, 

All lofty thoughts and dreams ; 
The poetry with whose deep lifa 

All stronger feeling teems. 
These aggravate the ill, and give 

A misery of their own ; 
The gifted spirit suiTers much, 

To common ones unknown. 



Why did she love ? Alas, such choice 

Is not at woman's will ; 
Once must she love, and on that cast 

Is set life's good or ill. 
Sorrows, and timid cares, and tears, 

The happiest entertain ; 
But this world has no other hope, 

For her who loves in vain. 



THE MISSIONARY. 

It is glorious task to seek, 

Where misery droops the patient head s 
Where tears are on the widow's cheek. 

Where weeps the mourner o'er the dead. 

These are the moments when the heart 
Turns from a world no longer dear ; 
19 217 



landon's poems. 

These are the moments to impart 
The only hope still constant here. 

That hope is present in our land, 
For many a sacred shrine is there ; 

Time-honour'd old cathedrals stand;* 
Each village has its house of prayer. 

O'er all the realm one creed is spread- 
One name adored — one altar known. 

If souls there be in doubt, or dread, 
Alas ! the darkness is their own. 

The priest whose heart is in his toil 
Hath here a task of hope and love j 

He dwells upon his native soil, 
He has his native sky above. 

Not so beneath this foreign sky : 
Not so upon this burning strand ; 

Where yonder giant temples lie,t 
The miracles of mortal hsid. 



• The Cathedral of Exeter. 

f Triad Figure. Interigh ofElephanta.— "Tfrs 
figure that faces the entrance is the most remarkaffla 
Ml this excavation, and has given rise to numberless 
conjectures and theories. It is a gigantic bust of 
Bome three-headed being, or three heads of some 
being to whom the temple may be supposed to be 
dedicated. Some writers have imagined that it is, 
what they have called the Hindoo Trinity of Brahma, 
Vishnu, and Shiva ; and very strange historical con- 
elusions have been deduced from this hypothesis. 
The Hindoo Trimurti, or Trinity, as it has been 
called, does not occupy a very remarkable place in 
the theology of the Brahmins; the word Trimurti 
means three forms, and is applied to any three - 
headed figure." — Elliot. 

218 



THE MIS-SIONAEY, 

Mighty and beautiful, but given 

To idols of a creed profane ; 
Tliat cast the shade of earth on heaven. 

By fancies monstrous, vile, and vain. 

The votary here must half unlearn 
The accents of liis mother tongue ; 

Must dwell 'mid strangers, and must earn 
Fruits from a soil reluctant wrung. 

His words on harden' d hearts must fall. 
Harden' d till God's appointed hour 4 

Yet he must wait, and watch o'er all. 
Till hope grows faith, and prayer has power. 

And many a grave neglected lies, 
Where sleep the soldiers of the Lord | 

Who perish'd 'neath the sultry skies. 
Where first they preach' d that sacred woi d. 

But not in vain — their toil was blest ; 

Life's dearest hope by them was won; 
A blessing is upon their rest, 

And on the work which ikey beguH. 

Yon city, where our purer creed 
Was a thing unnamed, unknown, 

Has now a sense of deeper need, 
Has now a place of prayer its own. 

And many a darken' d mind has light, 
And many a stony heart has tears ; 

The morning breaking o'er that night. 
So long upon those godless spheres. 

Our prayers be with them — ^we who know 

The value of a soul to save. 
Must pray for those, who seek to show 

The Heathen Hope beyond the grave. 
219 



VALLEY OF LINMOUTH: 

NORTH DEVON. 

'Tis a gloomy place, but I like it well ; 
There would I choose, alone, to dwell ; 
The rocks around should friends supply, 
Less cold, less hard than those I fly. 

I do not care for the rosy flowers, 
Un them is the shadow of other hours. 
I gather'd a rose beneath the sun. 
In an hour its lovely life was done. 

No ! here I will find for myself a cave 
Half a home, and half a grave ; 
Dark in the noontide hour 'twill be — 
Dark — and the darker the fitter for me. 

The hills are rough, and the hills are bare. 
More like the heart that harboureth there. 
I shall hear the storm as it roUeth by, 
I shall watch the clouds that shadow the sky. 

All I ask is never to hear 

Of human hope or of human fear ; 

I have had enough of both in my day. 

And I know how their seeming passes away. 

The wind may sometimes bear along 
The distant sound of the shepherd's song ; 
I shall rejoice that no more I share 
In fancies and follies that make his care. 
220 



t:he wishing gate. 

The falling leaves will make my bed, 
The granite stone will pillow my head ; 
The cave in the rock is a fitting shrine 
For heart so wither' d and worn as mine. 



THE. DANCING GIRL. 

A LIGHT and joyous figure, one that seems 
As if the air were her own element ; 
Begirt with cheerful thoughts, and bringing back 
Old days, when nymphs upon Arcadian plains 
Made musical the wind, and in the sun 
Flash' d their bright cymbals and their whitest 

hands. 
These were the days of poetry — the woods 
Were haunted with sweet shadows ; and the 

caves 
Odorous with moss, and lit with shining spars 
Were homes where Naiades met some graceful 

youth 
Beneath the moonlit heaven — all this is past ; 
Ours is a darker and a sadder age ; 
Heaven help us through it ! — 'tis a weary world 
The dust and ashes of a happier time. 



THE WISHING GATE* 

Wishes, no ! I have not one, 
Hope's sweet toil with me is done • 
One by one have flitted by, 
All the rainbows of the sky. 

* I .believe that to this haunted gate a common 
Buperstition is attached, namely, that to wish and to 
have that wish fulfilled, is the result of such wish 
being uttered while passing. 
19* 221 



landon's poems. 

Not a star could now unfold 
Aught I once wish'd to be told. 
What have I to seek of thee ? 
Not a wish remains for me. 

Let the soldier pause to ask, 
Honour on his glorious task ; 
Let the parting sailor crave 
A free wild wind across the wave ; 
Let the maiden pause to frame 
Blessings on some treasured name ; 
Let them breathe their hopes in thee, 
Not a wish remains for me. 

Not a wish ! beat not my heart, 
Thou hast not bade thy dreams depart ; 
They have past, but left behind 
Weary spirit, wasted mind. 
Ah ! if this old charm were sooth, 
One wish yet might tax its truth ; 
I would ask, however \&in, 
Never more to wish agaiin. 



THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 



• A fair young face— yet mournful in its youth- 
Brooding above sad tboughts." 



It is the last token of love and of thee ! 

Thy once faith is broken, thou false one to 

me. 
I think on the letters with which I must part ; 
Too dear are the fetters which wind round my 

heart. 

222 



THE LILY OF THE VALLET. 

Thy words were enchanted — and ruled me at 

will; 
My spirit is haunted, — remembering them still. 
So earnest, so tender — the full heart was there ; 
Ah ! song might surrender its lute in despair. 

I deem'd that I knew thee as none ever knew ; 
That 'twas mme to subdue thee, and thine to 

be true. 
1 deem'd to my keeping thy memory had 

brought 
The depths that were sleeping of innermost 

thought. 

The bitter concealings life's treacheries teach, 
The long-subdued feelings the world cannot 

reach — 
Thy mask to the many was worn not for me ; 
•I saw thee — can any seem like imto thee ? 

No other can know thee as I, love, have 

known ; 
No future will show thee a love like mine own. 
That love was no passion that walketh by day, 
4. fancy — a fashion that flitteth away. 

*Twas life's whole emotion — a storm in iia 

might— 
'Twas deep as the ocean, and silent as night. 
It swept down life's flowers, the fragile and 

fair, 
The heart had no powers from passion to spare. 

Thy faults but endear' d thee, so stormy and 

wild ; 
My lover I I fear'd thee, as feareth a child. 
They seem'd but the shrouding of spirit too 

high. 
As vapours come crowding the sunniest sky. 
223 



landon's poems. 

1 worshipp'd in terror a comet above ; 
Ah ! fatal the error — ah ! fatal the love ! 
For thy sake life never will charm me again ; 
Its beauty forever is vanish' d and vain. 

Thou canst not restore me the depth and the 

truth 
Of the hopes that came o'er me in earliest 

youth. 
Their gloss is departed — their magic is flown, 
And sad £ind faint-hearted I wander alone 

'Tis vain to regret me — you will not regret ; 
You will try to forget me — you cannot forget. 
We shall hear of each other — ! misery to 

hear 
Those names from another that once were so 

dear! 

What slight words will sting us that breathe of 

the past, 
And shght things will bring us thoughts fated 

to last. 
The fond hopes that centred in thee are all 

dead, 
But the iron has enter'd the soul where they 

fed. 

Like others in seeming, we'll walk through 

life's paEt, 
Cold, careless, and dreaming — with death in 

the heart, 
No hope — no repentance; the spring of life 

o'er ; 
All died with that sentence— I love thee no 



224 



THE SHEPHERD BOY. 

" Now as they were going along, and talking, they 
spied a boy feeding his father's sheep. The boy was 
in very mean clothes, but of a fresh and well-fa- 
voured countenance ; and as he sat by himself, he 
sung. Then said the guide, Do you hear him 1 I 
will dare to say this boy lives a merrier life, and 
wears more of the herb called heart's-ease in his bo- 
som, than he that is clad in silk and velvet." — Pil- 
obim's Progress. 

Like some vision olden 

Of far other time, 
When the age was golden, 

In the young world's prime ; 
Is thy soft pipe ringing, 

O lonely shepherd boy, 
What song art thou singing, 

In thy youth and joy ? 

Or art thou complaining 

Of thy lowly lot, 
And thine own disdaining, 

Dost aak what thou hast not ? 

Of the future dreaming, 

Weary of the past. 
For the present scheming, 

All but what thou hast. ^ 

No, thou art delighting 

In thy summer home ; 
Where the flowers inviting 

Tempt the bee to roam ; 
Where the cowslip bending, 

With its golden bells. 
Of each glad hour's ending 

With a sweet chime tella. 
225 



landon's poems. 

All wild creatures love him 

When he is alone, 
Every bird above him 

Sings its softest tone. 
Thankful to high Heaven, 

Humble in thy joy 
Much to thee is given, 

Lowly shepherd boy. 



MARDALE HEAD.* 

Why should I seek these scenes again, the past 
Is on yon valley like a shroud 1 

Weep for the love that fate forbids. 

Yet loves unhoping on. 
Though every light that once illumed 

Its early path be gone. 

Weep for the love that must resign 

The heart's enchanted dream, 
And float like some neglected bark, 

Adown life's lonely stream. 

Weep for the love these scenes recall. 

Like some enduring spell ; 
It rests within the soul which loved 

Too vainly, and too well. 

Weep for the breaking heart condemn'd 

To see its youth pass by, 
Whose lot has been in this cold world 

To dream, despair, and die. 

* "Among the mountains which form the southern 
boundary of Ha weswater is Mardale Head, a wild 
and solitary region, wherein nature, working with 
a master hand, seems to have produced the very 
beau ideal of romantic grandeur and eubliraitv." 
226 



DIRGE. 

Lay her in the gentle earth, 
Where the summer maketh mirth ; 
Where young violets have birth ; 

Where the lily bendeth. 
Lay her there, the lovely one ! 
With the rose, her funeral stone : 
And far tears, such showers alono 

As the rain of April leudeth. 

From the midnight's quiet hour 
Will come dew^s of holy powerr 
O'er the sweetest human flower 

That was ever loved. 
But she was too fair and dear 
For our troubled pathway here ; 
Heaven, that was her natural sphere, 

Has its own removed. 



WINDLESHAW ABBEY. 



Mark you not yon sad procession, 
'Mid the ruin'd abbey's gloom, 

Hastening to the worm's possession, 
To the dark and silent tomb ? 

See the velvet pall hangs over 
Poor mortality's remains ; 

We should shudder to discover 
What that coffin's space containa 
227 



landon's poems. 

Death itself is lovely — ^wearing 
But the colder shape of sleep ; 

Or the solemn statue bearing 
Beauty that forbids to weep. 

But decay — the pulses tremble 

When its livid signs appear ; 
When the once-loved lips resemble 

All we loathe, and all we fear. 

Is it not a ghastly ending 
For the body's godlike form, 

Thus to the damp earth descending, 
Food and triumph to the worm t 

Better far the red pile blazing 

With the spicy Indian wood, 
Incense unto heaven raising 

From the sandal oil's sweet flood. 

In the bright pyre's kindling flashes, 
Let my yielded soul ascend ; 

Fling to the wild winds my ashes 
'Till with mother earth they blend. 

Not so,— let the pale urn keep them ; 

Touch'd with spices, oil, and wine ; 
Let there be some one to weep them ; 

Wilt thou keep that urn ? Love mine ! 



TUNIS. 



No more that city's pirate barks 

Molest the distant waves ; 
No more the Moslem idler marks 

The sale of Christian slaves. 
And yet how much is left undone 

These city walls within ! 
What though the victory may be won, 

Its fruit is yet to win. 
A 228 



TUNIS. 

What should the fruit of victory be ? 

What spoil should it command ?— 
Commerce upon the sweeping sea, 

And peace upon the land. 
As when the crimson sunset ends, 

In twiUght's quiet hours, 
The fertihzing dew ascends, 

That feeds the fruits and flowers. 

A quiet time hath Europe now, 

And she should use that time, 
The seed of general good to sow, 

Eternal and sublime ! 
Mighty is now the general scope 

To mortal views assign' d ; 
Direct from heaven is the hope 

That worketh for mankind. 

Too many objects worth its care 

The mind has left unwon ; 
But who is there that shall despair 

Knowing what has been done ? 
The press that on the moral world 

Has risen, Uke a star, 
The leaves of hght in darkness ftirl'd 

Spread with its aid afar. 

Far may it spread I — its influence 

Is giant in its might ; 
The moral world's intelUgence 

Lives on its guiding light. 
To teach, to hberate, to save, 

Is empire's noblest worth, 
Such be our hope across the wave, 

Our triumph o'er the earth ! 
20 229 






MILLER'S DALE, DERBYSHIRE. 

Do you remember, Love, the lake 

We used to meet beside t 
The only sound upon the air, 

The ripples on the tide. 

Do you remember, Loye, the hour 
When first the mooabeam shone 

Rising above the distant hills, 
We used to meet alone. 

You knew not then my rsmk and state, 

You only knew my love. 
Whose gentle witness was the moon, 

That Watch' d us from above. 



The valley, silver'd with her light, 

Was lovely as a shrine ; 
The truth within that young fresh hestt 

Felt there was truth in mine. 

You are a Countess now, sweet Love, 

And dwell in stately halls ; 
The red gold shines upon the board, 

The silk upon the walls. 

A thousand watch my Lady's eye. 
The miastrel sings her name ; 

None were so fair at Henry's court. 
Where all the faurest can>e. 

For the soft moonshine's rising light, 
The pearls are on your brow : 

Now, were you, lovely Ladye mine, 
The happiest then, or now ? 
230 



DJOUNI. 



" Nor lake, nor castle," soft she said, 
" Have any choice of mine ; 

I know in life one only lot. 
So long as I am thine ?" 



DJOUNI: 

THE RESIDENCE OF LAST HESTEB ETAKHOFB.''' 

O LADY, wherefore to the desert flying, 
Didst thou forsake old England's sea-beat 
strand. 

To dwell where never voice to thine replying, 
Repeats the accents of thy native land ? 

Around thee the white pelican is sweeping. 
Watching the slumbers of her callow brood ; 

And at the fountains of her fond heart keeping 
The last supply of their precarious food. 

Far spreads the wilderness of sand, as lonely 
As is the silence of the eternal grave ; 

And for thy home companions, thou hast only 
The dog, the Arab steed, the flower, tha 
slave. 

And rightly hast thou judged. On the strong 
pinion 
Of an unfetter'd will thy flight was made ; 
At once escaping from the false dominion 
Of our cold life, whose hopes are still 
betray' d. 

* " How could I," said Lady Hester, " live with 
the common people of usual life, after having lived 
With my uncle- -England,'8 prime minister— Pitt t'» 
231 



< landon's poems 

What is the social world thou hast forsaken ?— 
A scene of wrong and sorrow, guilt and 
guile; 
Whence Love a long and last farewell has 
taken, 
Where friends can smile, and " murder while 
they smile." 

Small truth is there among us — Uttle kindness — 
And falsehood still at work to make that less. 

We hurry onward in our selfish blindness, 
Not knowing that the truth were happiness. 

Ah ! wisely hast thou chosen thus to leave us, 
For thou hast left society behind. 

What are to thee the petty cafts that grieve hs, 
The cold— the false— the thankless— the un- 
kind? 

Thy home is in the desert ; fit disdaining 
Thou showest to the present and to us. 

Calm with the future and the past remaining 
Hopeful the one— the other glorious. 



DEATH OF THE LION AMONG THE 
RUINS OF SBEITLAH. 

HtTRRiEDLY, disturbing night 
With a red and sudden light, 
Came the morning, as it knew 
What there was for day to do. 
And that ere it sank again. 
It must show the lion'a den. 

All night long, a sullen roar, 
Like the billows on the shore, 
232 



THE FOEGOTTEN ONE. 

Sounded on the desert air, 
Telling who was lurking there. 
And the sleepless child was prest 
Closer tctetfae.BiQther's breast. 

Girdled hy the watch-fire's ray 
Did we wait the coming day ; 
And beneath the morning sun 
Flash' d the spear and gleam'd the gun. 
Forth we went to seek the shade 
Where the lion-king was laid. 

Dark the towering palm was spread, 
Like a giant, overhead ; ^, 

But the dewy grass below 
Served the lion's path to show. 
Low green bough arid flowery spray 
He bad rent upon his way. 

By the aqueduct of old, 
Where the silver river roll'd, 
Long since laid in ruing low — 
But there still the waters flow. 
Soon decayeth man's endeavour. 
Nature's works endure for ever. 

There we found the lion's cave — 
There we made the lion's grave. 
Three shots echo'd — three — ^no more. 
And the grass is red with gore. 
For the claws and skin we come— 
Let us bear our trophy home. 



THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 

No shadow rests upon the place 
Where once thy footsteps roved ; 
20* 233 



landon's poems. 

Nor leaf, nor blossom, bear a trace 

Of how thou wert beloved. 
The very night dew disappears 
Too soon, as it it spread its tears. 

Thou art forgotten ! — thou, whose feet 

Were listen' d for like song ! 
They used to call thy voice so sweet ; — 

It did*not haunt them long. 
Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth- 
How could they bear their lonely hearth 1 

There is no picture to recall 

'^y glad and open brow ; 
No profiled outline on the wall 

Seems like thy shadow now; 
They have not even kept to wear 
One ringlet of thy golden hair. 

When here we shelter'd last, appears 

But just like yest-erday ; 
It startles me to think that years 

Since then are pass'd away. 
The old oak tree that was our tent, 
No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent, 

A shower In June — a summer shower. 

Drove us beneath the shade ; 
A beautiful and greenwood bower 

The spreading branches made, 
The raindrops shine upon the bough, 
The passing rain — but where art thou ? 

But I forget how many showers 

Have wash'd this old oak tree, 
The winter and the summer hours, 

Since I stood here with thee : 
And I forget how chance a thought 
Thy memory to my heart has brought. 
234 



THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 

I talk of friends who once have wept. 

As if they still should weep ; 
I speak of grief that long has slept, 

As if it could not sleep ; 
I mourn o'er cold forgetfiilness, 
Have I, myself, forgotten less ? 

I've mingled with the young and fair, 
Nor thought how there was laid 

One fair and young as any there, 
In silence and in shade. 

How could I see a sweet mouth sliine 

With smiles, and not remember thine t 

Ah ! it is well we can forget, 

Or who could linger on 
Beneath a sky whose stars are set. 

On earth whose flowers are gone ? 
For who could welcome loved ones near. 
Thinking of those once far more dear, 

Our early friends, those of our youth? 

We cannot feel again 
The earnest love, the simple truth. 

Which made us such friends then. 
We grow suspicious, careless, cold ; 
We love not as we loved of old. 

No more a sweet necessity, 

Love must and will expand, 
Loved and beloving we must be. 

With open heart and hand, 
Which only ask to trust and share 
The deep affectioas which they bear. 

Our love was of that early time ; 

And now that it is past, 
It breathes as of a purer clime 

Than where my lot is cast, 
My eyes fill with their sweetest teoEB 
In thinking of those early yeais. 
235 



landon's poems. 

It shock' d me first to see the sun 
Shine gladly o'er thy tomb ; 

To see the wild flowers o'er it run 
In such luxuriant bloom. 

Now I feel glad that they should keep 

A bright sweet watch above thy sleep. 

The heaven whence thy nature came 

'Only recall' d its own ; 
It is Hope that now breathes thy name, 

Though borrowing Memory's tone. 
1 feel this earth could never be 
The native home of one like thee. 

l''arewell ! the early dews that fall 
Upon thy grass-grown bed, 

Are like the thoughts that now recaH 
Thine image from the dead. 

A blessuig hallows thy dark cell — 

I voll not stay to weep, Farewell ! 



THE 
PALACE CALLED BEAUTIFUL. 

"He lifted up his eyes, and behold there was a very 
stately palace before him, the name of which was 
♦Beautiful.' Looking very narrowly before him ai 
he went, he espied two lions in the way." 

Pilgrim's Peogrebs. 

He wander'd on a weary way, 

A weary way he wander'd on; 
Till eagerness and fortitude — 

Till all but hope were gone. 

The night fell dark around his steps, 

And terrible is ifalling night. 
For cheerful thoughts of enterprise 
' Attend on morning's light. 
236 



SCENES IN LONDON. 

And there were Lions in the way— 
The lion mighty in his wrath — 

No marvel that the traveller shrank 
From such a dreary path. 

1 hen spake the Porter of the house, 

The house that was so fair, 
The house whose name was Beautiful, 

And bade him not despair. 

Chain' d were the Lions on his way. 
And he could safely pass along, 

If that he had a steadfast hope, 
And if his faith were strong. 

He enter' d in the lovely place : 

Four maidens at the door, 
With wine, and bread, and pleasant words. 

His fainting soul restore. 

Next morn they furnish' d him with arms 

That in the sunshine glow'd. 
W ho were the maidens setting forth 

The Christian on his road ? 

Prudence and Piety, intent 

On every work of Love, 
And Charity, whose youthful heart 

la tender as the dove. 



SCENES IN LONDON. 

OXFOKD STREET. 

Life in its many shapes was there, 

The busy and the gay ; 
Faces that seemed too young and fair 

To ever know decay. 
237 



landon's poems. 

Wealth, with its waste, its pomp, and pride, 

Led forth its glittering train ; 
And poverty's pale face beside 

Ask'd aid, and ask'd in vain. 

The shops were filled from many lands-^ 
Toys, silks, and gems, and flowers; 

The patient work of many hands, 
The hope of many hours. 

Yet 'mid life's inyriad shapes arouad-' - - ■• ■> 
There was a sigh of death } ' •'•!'■ i r A 

There rose a melancholy somid. 
The bugle's wailing breath. 

They play'd a mournful Scottish air. 

That on its native hill 
Had caught the notes the night winds bear 

From weeping leaf and rill. 

'Twas strange to hear that sad wild strain 

Its warning music shed. 
Rising above life's busy train, 

In memory of the dead. 

There came a slow and silent band 

In sad procession by : 
Reversed the musket in each hand. 

And downcast every eye. 

They bore the soldier to his grave ; 

The sympathizing crowd 
Divided like a parted wave 

By some dark vessel plough'd. 

A moment, and all sounds were mute. 

For awe was over all ; 
You heard the soldier's measured foot, 

The bugle's wailing call. 
238' 



THE CITY OP TiSfi DEAD. 

The gbves were laid upon the bier, 

The helmet and the sword ; 
The drooping war-horse followed near, 

As he, too, mourn'd his lord. 

Slowly— I follow' d" too— they led 

To where a church arose, 
And flung a shadow o'er the dead 

Deep as their own repose. 

Green trees were there— beneath the shads 

Of one was made a grave ; 
And there to his last rest was laid 

The weary and the brave. 

They fired a volley o'er th« bed 

Ofan unconscious ear; 
The birds sprang fluttering overhead, - 

Struck with a sudden fear. 

All left the ground ; the bugles died 

Away upon the wind ; 
Only the tree's green branches sigh'd 

O'er him they left behind. 

Again, all fill'd with light and breath, 

I pass'd the crowded street — 
O, great extremes of life and death. 

How strangely do ye meet ! 



THE GITY OF THE DEAD. 

"fwas dark with cypresses and yews, which cast 
Drear shadows on the fairer trees and flowers- 
Affection's latest signs. * * * 

Dark portal of another world— the grave— 
I do not fear thy shadow ; and methinks, 
If 1 may make my own heart oracle,— 
239 



landon's poems. 

The many long to enter thee, for thou 

Alone canst re-unite the loved and lost 

With those who pine for them. I fear thee not ) 

1 only fear my own unworthiness, 

Lest it prove barrier to my hope, and make 

Another parting in another world. 

I. 

Lattrel ! O, fling thy green bougha on the 

air, 
There is dew on thy branches, what doth it do 

there T 
Thou that art worn on the conqueror's shield, 
When his country receives him from glory'a 

red field ; 
Thou that art wreath' d round the lyre of the 

bard, 
When the song of its sweetness has \7on its re- 
ward. 
Earth'^ changeless and sacred — ^thou proud 

laurel tree ! 
The tears of the midnight, why hang they on 

thee ? 



II. 

Rose of the morning, the blushing and bright, 
Thou whose whole life is one breath of delight , 
Beloved of the maiden, the chosen to bind 
Her dark tresses* wealth from the wild summer 

wind. 
Fair tablet, still vow'd to the thoughts of the 

lover, 
Whose rich leaves with sweet secrets are writ- 
ten all over ; 
Fragrant as blooming — thou lovely rose tree ! 
The tears of the midnight, why hang they on 
thee ? 

III. 
Daik cypress ! I see thee— thou art my reply, 
Why the tears of the night on thy comrade 
trees he ; 

240 



THE CITY OF THE DEAD. 

That laurel it wreath' d the red brow of the 
brave, 

Yet thy shadow lies black on the warrior's 
grave, 

That rose was less bright than the lip which it 
prest, 

Yet thy sad branches bend o'er the maiden's 
last rest ; 

The brave and the lonely alike they are sleep- 
ing, 

I marvel no more rose and laurel are weeping. 

IV. 

Yet, sunbeam of heaven ! thou fall'st on the 
tomb ; 
Why pausest thou by such dwelling of doom ? 
Before thee the grove and the garden are 



Why lingerest thou round the place of the dead f 
Thou art from another, a lovelier sphere. 
Unknown to the sorrows that darken us here. 
Thou art as a herald of hope from above : — 
Weep, mourner, no more o'er thy grief and thy 

love ! 
S ;ill thy heart in its beating ; be glad of such rest, 
Though it call from thy bosom its dearest and 

best. 
Weep no more that affection thus loosens its tie ; 
Weep no more that the loved and the loving 

must die ; 
Weep no more o'er the cold dust that lies at 

your feet ; 
But gaze on yon starry world — there ye shaU 

meet. 

V. 

O heart of mme ! is there not One dwelling 
there 
To whom thy love clings in its hope and its 

prayer ? 
For whose sake thou numberest each hour of 
the day, 

21 241 



LAND OH S POEMS, 

As a link in the fetters that keep me away f 
When I think of the glad and the beatrtifrJ 

home 
Which oft in my dreams to my sphithath come • 
That when ofur last sleep on my eyelids hal^i 

prcst, 
That I may be with thee at home and at rest ? 
W^hen wanderer no longer on life's weary shore, 
I may kneel at thy feet, and part from thee no 

more: 
While death holds such hope forth to sooth-a 

and to save, 
O, sunbeam of heaven, thou may's* well light 

the grave I 



THE IQNIAN CAPTIVE. 

Sadly the captive o'er her flowers is bending. 
While her soft eye whh sudden sorrow fills 

Fhey are not those that grew beneath he? 
tending 
In the green valley of her native bills. 

There is the viofet — not from the meadow 
Where wander' d carelessly her childisfj 
feet; 

There is the rose — it grew not in the shadow 
Of her old home— it cannot be so sweet. 

And yet she loves themf— for those flowers are 
bringing 
Dreams of the home thait she will see no 
more ; 
The languid perfumes are around her, flinging 
What almost for the moment they restore. 
242 






THE IONIAN CAPTIVE. 

Shfi hears her mother's wheel, that, slowly 
turning, 
Murmur' d unceasingly the summer day ; 
/ind the same murmur, when the pine boughs 
burning 
Told that the summer hours had passed 
away. 

She heara her young companions sadly singing 
A song they loved — an old complaining tune ; 

Then comes a gayer sound — the laugh ia ringing 
Of the young children — hurrying in at noon. 

By the dim myrtles, wandering with her sister. 

They tell old stories, broken by the mirth 
Of her young brother : alas ! have they miss'd 
her, 
She who was borne a captive from their 
hearth ! 

She starts — ^too present grows the actual sorrow, 
By her own heart she knows what they have 
borne ; 

Young as she is, she shudders at to-morrow, 
It can but find her prisoner and forlorn. 

What are the glittering trifles that surround 
her— 
What the rich shawl — and what the golden 
chain ? 
Would she could break the fetters that have 
bound her. 
And see her household and her hills again ! 
243 



THE CEDARS OF LEBANON. 

Ye ancients of the earth, beneath whose shade 
Swept the fierce banners of earth's mightiest 
kings, 
When millions for a battle were array'd. 
And the sky darken'd with the vulture's 
wings. 

Long silence foUow'd on the battle-cries ; 

First the bones whiten'd, then were seeu no 
more; 
The summer grasses sprang for summer skies. 

And dim tradition told no tales of yore. 

The works of peace succeeded those first wars. 

Men left the desert tents for marble walls ; 
Then rose the towers from whence they watch' d 
the stars, 

And the vast wonders of their kingly halls. 

And they are perish' d — those imperial towers 
Read not amid the midnight stars their 
doom ; 

The pomp and art of all their glorious hours 
Lie hidden in the sands that are their tomb. 

And ye, ancestral trees ! are somewhat shorn 
Of the first strength that mark'd earth's 
earlier clime ; 

But still ye stand, stately and tempest- worn, 
To show how nature triumphs over time. 

Much have ye witness'd — ^but yet more re- 
mains; 

2U 



BELVOIR CASILE. 

The mind's great empire is but just begun ; 
The desert beauty of your distant plains 
Proclaim how much has yet been left 
undone. 

Will not your giant columns yet behold 
The world's old age, enlighten'd, calm, and 
free ; 

More glorious than the glories known of old— 
The spirit's placid rule o'er land and sea. 

All that the past has taught is not in vain-r- 
Wiadom is garner'd up from centuries gone ; 

Love, Hope, and Mind prepare a nobler reign 
Than ye have known — Cedars of Lebanon ! 



BELVOIR CASTLE: 

BEAT OF THE DUKE OF RUTLAND. 
INSCRIBED TO LADT EMMELINE STUART WORTLEV. 

'Tis an old and stately castle. 

In an old and stately wood ; 
Thoughts and shadows gather'd round it, 

Oi the ages it had stood. 



But not of the ancient warriors. 
Whose red banners swept its towers, 

Nor of any lovely lady, 
Blooming in its former bowers — 

Think I now ; — ^but one as lovely. 
And more gifted, haunts my Une, 

In the visions round yon castle 
Is no fairer one than thine ! 

I can fancy thee in childhood 

Wandering through each haunted scene, 
Peopling the green glades arovmd thee 

With the thoughts of what had been ; 
21* 245 



landon's poems. 

Asking of each leaf its lesson, 
Of each midnight star its tale, 

Till thy fancy caught reveahngs 
From the music of the gale. 

Yet, whence did thy lute inherit 
All it knows of human grief? — 

What dost thou know of the knowledge 
On life's dark and. daily leaf? 

In thy woman-hearted pages, 
How much sympathy appears 

With the sorrowful and real, 
All that only speaks in tears ! 

Have those large bright eyes been darkened 
By the shadows from below ? 

Rather would I deem thee dreammg 
Over grief thou canst not know. 

But thou hast the poet's birthright, 
In a heart too warm and true. 

Wreath thy dark hair with the laurel- 
On it rests the midnight dew ! 



THE 

MIDDLE TEMPLE GARDENS. 

The fountain's low singing is heard on the wind, 
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies tojpiind, 
Some to grieve, some to gladden : around them 

they cast 
The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the 

past. 

Away in the distance is heard the vast sound, 
From the streets of the city 'that compass it 

round. 
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep 
- • call; 

Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all. 
246 



MIDDLE TEMPLE GARDENS. 

The turf and the terrace slope down to the tide 
Of the Thames, that sweeps onwards — a world 

at its side : 
And dark the horizon, with mast and with sail 
Of the thousand tall sliips that have weather'd 

the gale : 
While beyond the arch'd bridge the old abbey 

' appears. 
Where England has garner' d the glories of 

years. 
There the royal, the lovely, the gifted, the 

brave, 
Haunt the heart with a poetry born of the grave. 

Still and lone 'mid the tumult these gardens 

extend, 
The elm and the hme over flower beds bend ; 
And the sunshine rains m as the Ught leaves are 

Btirr'd, 

When away from the nest he has built springs 
the bird. 

The boat, and the barge, and the wave, have 
grown red ; 

And the sunset has crimson'd the boughs over- 
head; 

But the lamps are now shining, the colours are 
gone. 

And the garden lies shadov(ry, silent and lone. 

There are lights in the casements : how weary 

the ray 
That asks from the night-time the toils of the 

day! 
I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page, 
Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles 

of age. 
The hour may be coming when fortune and fame 
May crown the ejideavour, and honour the 

name : 
But the toil has been long that too early began : 
And the judge and the peer is a world-weary 

man. 

247 



landon's poems. 

TIi« rob« and the ermine, by few they are won : 
How many sink down ere the race be half run ! 
What struggles, what hopes, what despdr may 

have been. 
Where sweep those rude branches of shadowy 

green ! 
What crowds are around us, what misery is 

there. 
Could the heart, like the face which conceals 

it, lay bare ! 
But we know not each other— we seek not to 

know 
What the social world hides in the darkness 

below. 

I lean in the window, and hear the low tune 
Of the fountain, now bright with the new risen 

moon. 
In the chamber within are the gay and the 

young ; 
The light laugh is laugh' d, and the sweet song 

is sung. 
I turn to their mirth, but it is in a mask — 
The jest is an omen, the smile is a task. 
A slave in a pageant, I walk through life's part, 
With smiles on the hp, and despair at the heart. 



ROBERT BLAKE, 

iDMIBAL AND GENERAL OF THE FABUAMENTABI 
fOBCES. 

What ! will they sweep the channels, 

And brave us as they go ! 
There's no place in English annals. 

For the triumph of a foe. 

Thus spoke the English admiral, 

His hand was on his sword ; 
Hurrah ! was the sole answer 

From every man on board. 

248 



EOBEKT BLAKE. 

The Dutch came o'er the ocean. 
As if it were their home, 

With a slow and gliding motion 
The stately vessels come. 

The sky is blue above them, 
But ere an hour be past, 

Tlie shadows of the battle 
Will over heaven be cast. 

They meet — it is in thunder, 
The thunder of the gun ; 

Fire rends the smoke asunder. 
The battle is begun. 

He stands amid his seamen, 
Our Admiral of the White, 

And giudes the strife more calmly. 
Than of that strife I write. 

For over the salt water 

The grape-shot sweeps around ; 
The decks are red with slaughter, 

The dead are falling round. 

But the bold flag of old England 
Flies bravely at the mast ; 

The Dutch take down their colours. 
While the cannons fire thek last. 

From that hour victorious 

Have we kept the seas. 
And our navy glorious 

Queens it o'er the breeze. 

Long may we keep such empire, 

It is a noble debt 
We owe to those past triumphs. 

We never may forget. 
249 



SCALE FORCE, CUMBERLAND. 



Thia cascade, distant about a mile and a half from 
the village of Buttermere, exceeds in extent of fall 
the renowned Niagara, yet, owing to a difficulty of 
access, it is frequency neglected by the tourist. 



It sweeps, as sweeps an army 
Adown the mountain side. 
With the voice of many thunders, 
Like the battle's sounding tide. 

Yet the sky is blue above it, 
And the dashing of the spray 
Wears the colour of the rainbow 
Upon an April day. 

It rejoices in the sunshine 
When after heavy rain 
It gathers the far waters 
To dash upon the plain. 

It is terrible, yet lovely. 
Beneath the morning rays : 
Like a dream of strength and beauty 
It haunted those who gaze. 

We feel that it is glorious, 
Its power is on the soul ; 
And lofty thoughts within us 
Acknowledge its control. 

A generous inspiration 
Is on the outward world ; 
250 



SEGATTA, WINDERMERE LAKE. 

It waketh thoughts and feelings 
In carelesa coldness ftirfed. 



To love and to admire 
Seems natural to the heart ; 
Life's small and selfish interests 
From such a scene depart. 



REGATTA,— -V^IKDERMERE LAKE. 

With sunshine on their canvass, 

And sunshine at their side — 
Like court beauties at a pageant, 

The stately vessels glide. 

The sound of shout and music 
Comes from the boats behind j 

And the peal of youthfiil laughter ^ 
Makes glad the summer wind. 

But we win not go with them, 

My loved one and my own j 
We never are so happy 

As when we are alone. 

Yet when the purple shadows 

Of the quiet eve come on, 
And the ripple of those vessels 

From each still wave is gone :•=— 

When stars with silver footsteps 
Pass Uke angels o'er the sky ; • 

When the breath of leaf and blossoia 
To the lulling winds reply :— 

Then let our boat, my sweet one ! 
To yonder shore depart, 
251 



landon's poems. 

When not a sound is louder 
Than our own beating heart. 

Like a dream beneath the moonlight 

Our fairy float will be ; 
Let the weary crave the many— 

I ask only for thee ! 



THE EARL OF SANDWICH. 

They call'dthe Islands by his name,* 
Those isles, the far away and fair j 

A graceful fancy hnli'd with fame, 
A flattery — such as poets' are ; 

Who link with lovely things their praise, 
And ask the earth, and ask the sky, 

To colour with themselves their lays 
And some associate grace supply. 

But here it was a sailor's thought. 
That named the island from the Earl— 

That dreams of England might be brought 
To those soft shores, and seas of pearl. 

How very fair they must have seem'd 
When first they darken' d on the deep ! 

Like all the wandering seaman dream' d 
When land rose lovely on his sleep. 

How many dreams they turn'd to truth 
When first they met the sailor's eyes, 

Green with the sweet earth's southern youth, 
And azure with her southern skies. 

* The Sandwich Islands were so called in honoui 
at the Earl of Sandwich, then first lord of tjl>fl 
Admiralty. 

252 



STEADA ST. TJRSOLA. 

And yet our English thought beguiles 
The mariner where'er he roam. 

He looks upon the new-found isles, 
And calls them by some name of home. 



STRADA ST. URSOLA,— MALTA 

FotTNa knight, that broider'd cloak undo, 
And break that golden chain in two ; 
Take from your hand its jewels fair. 
Shear those bright curls of sunny hair> 
And offer up at yonder shrine 
All vanities that once were thine. 



No more the victor of the ring, 
Thy triumphs •will the minstrel sing ; 
No more upon thy helm the glove 
Will ask of fame to sanction love. 
The saraband untrod must be, 
The lists, the dance are closed for thee. 

Look to the past-"if present there 
Be visible one great despair : 
Look to the future — if it give 
Nothing which charmeth thee to live. 
Then come — the present knows its doom ; 
Thy heart already is a tomb. 

Thy check is pale — ^thy brow is worn 
Thy lip is bitter in its scorn. 
I read in them the signs that tell 
The heart's impassion'd chronicle. 
'Tis past ! — and Malta's iron vow 
To thee is less than nothing now. 
22 253' 



THE ALTERED RIVER. 

Tflou lovely river, thou art now 

As fair as fair can be, 
Pale flowers wreathe upon thy broV^, 

The rose bends over thee. 
Only the morning sun hath leave 

To turn thy waves to light, 
Cool shade the willow branches weave 

When noon becon'es too bright. 
The lilies are the only boats 

Upon thy diamond plain, 
The swan alone in silence floata 

Around thy charm' d domain. 
The moss bank's fresh embroideric, 

With faity favours starr'd, 
Seems made the summer haunt to be 

Of melancholy bard. 
Fair as thou art, thou wilt be food 

For many a thought of pain ; 
For who can gaze upon thy flood. 

Nor wish it to remain 
The same pure and unsullied thing 

Where heaven's face is as clear 
Mirror' d in thy blue wandering 

As heaven's face can be here. 
Flowers fling their sweet bonds on thy hteAH, 

The willows woo thy stay, 
In vain,— -thy waters may not rest, 

Their course must be away. 
In yon wide world, what wilt thou find ? 

What all find — toil and care ; 
Your flowers you have left behind 

Far other Aveight to bear. 
The heavy bridge confines your stream, 

Through which the barges toil, 
Smoke has shut out the sun's glad beam, 
264 



THE LEGACY OF THE LUTE. 

Thy waves have caught the so3. 
On — on — though weariness it be, 

By shoal and barrier cross'd, 
Till thou hast reach' d the mighty sea, 

And there art wholly lost. 
Bend thou, young poet, o'er the stream-^ 

Such fate will be thine own ; 
Thy lute's hope is a morning dream, 

And when have dreams not flown ? 



THE LEGACY OF THE LUTE. 

Come take the lute— the lute I loved, 

'Tis all I have to offer thee ; 
And may it be less fatal gift 

Than it has ever been to me. 
My sigh yet lingers on the strings, 

The strings I have not heart to break : 
Wilt thou not, dearest ! keep the lute 

For mine — for the departed's sake ? 

But, pray thee, do not \Vake that lute ; 

Leave it upon the cypress tree ; 
I would have crush' d its charmed chords, 

But they so oft were strung to thee. 
The minstrel-lute ! O, touch it not. 

Or weary destiny is thine ! 
Thy life a twilight's haunted dream— 

Thou, victim, at an idol's shrine. 

Thy breath but lives on others' lips— 

Thy hope, a thing beyond the grave,— 
Thy heart, bare to the vulture's beak— 

Thyself a bound and barter'd slave. 
And yet a dangerous charm o'er all, 

A bright but ignis-fatuus flame, 
I/uring thee with a show of power. 

Dazzling thee with a blaze of flame. 
255 



liANDON'S POEMS. 

It is to waste on careless nearta 

The throbbing music of thine own ; 
To speak love's burning words, yet be 

Alone — ay, utterly alone. 
I sought to fling my laurel wreath 

Away upon the autumn wind : 
In vain, — 'twas like those poison' d crowns 

Thou may'st not from the brow unbinds 

Predestined from my birth to feed 

On dreams, yet watch those dreams dapart 
To bear through life — to feel in death — 

A burning and a broken heart. 
Then hang it on the cypress bough, 

The minstrel-lute I leave to thee ; 
And be it only for the wind 

To wake its mournful dirge for me. 



DEATH AND THE YOUTH. 

• ' Not yet — the flowers are in my path, 

The sun is in the sky ; 
Not yet — my heart is full of hope— 

I cannot bear to die. 

Not yet — ^I never knew till now 
How precious life could be ; 

My heart is full of love — O Death ! 
I cannot come with thee !" 

But Love and Hope, enchanted twain. 
Passed in their falsehood by ; 

Death came again and then he said — 
' I'm readv now to die I" 
256 



JESUITS IN PROCESSION: 

VALETTA, MALTA. 

Whence rose the sect that 'neath yon azure 
dome, 
Hath had such wide domain o'er courts and 

kings, 
And the wild forest where the condor springs 
Darkening the Ionel7 vale which has his 

home- 
Whence did that sect with all its power come ? 
From the dim shadows of the sick man's room ' 

The founder, St. Ignatius, knew of life 
Whatever of that Ufe might seem the best: 

The glorious fever of the battle strife, 
The pleasure that in court or bower is guest : 
But in all things were care and sorrow rife, 
And the soul's instinct craved diviner rest. 
Then to his hopes a holier aim was given- 
He made of earth the stepping-stone to 
heaven ! 



THE DEVOTEE. 

Prater on her lips— yet, while the maiden 
prayeth, 
A human sorrow deepens in her eyes ; 
For e'en the very words of prayer she sayeth, 
A sad and lingering memory supplies. 
22* 257 



landon's poems. 

She leans beside the vault where sleeps her 
mother, 

The tablet has her name upon the wall— 
Her only parent, for she knew no other ; 

In losing whom, the orphan lost her alL 

Young, very young, she is, but wholly vanish'd 
Youth's morning colours from her cheek are 
gone; 

All gayer and all careless thoughts are banish' d 
By the perpetual presence of but one. 

And yet that sweet face is not all of sorrow, 
It wears a softer and a higher mood ; 

And seemeth from the world within to borrow 
A holy and a constant fortitude. 

Early with every sabbath-morn returning. 
You hear her light step up the chancel come; 

She looketh all the week with tender yearning 
To that old church which is to her a home. 

For her own home is desolate and lonely, 
Hers is the only seat beside the hearth, 
Sad in its summer garden, as she orUy 
Were the last wanderer on this weary earth. 
• 
But in that ancient church her heart grows 
stronger 
With prayers that raise their earnest eyes 
above ; 
And in the presence of her God, no longer 
Feels hke an outcast from all hope and love. 

Glorious the mighty anthem round her swell 
ing, 
Fills the rapt spirit, sacred and sublime ; 
Soon will for her unfold th' immortal dwelling- 
She waiteth patient, God's appointed time. 
258 



ADMIRAL COLLINGWOOD. 

Methinks it is a glorious thing 

To sail upon the deep ; 
A thousand sailors under you, 

Their watch and ward to keep : 
To see your gallant battle-flag 

So scornfully unroll 'd, 
As scarcely did the wild wind dar 

To stir one crimson fold : 

To watch the frigates scatter'd round. 

Like birds upon the wing ; 
Yet know they only wait your will — 

It is a glorious thing ; 
Our admiral stood on the deck, 

And look'd upon the sea ; 
He held the glass in his right hand 

And far and near look'd he. 

He could not see one hostile ship 

Abroad upon the main ; 
From east to west, from north to south, 

It was his own domain. 
" Good news for England this, good news," 

Forth may her merchants fare ; 
Thick o'er the sea, no enemy 

Will cross the pathway there 

A paleness came upon his cheek, 

A shadow to his brow ; 
Alas ! our good Lord Collingwood, 

What is it ails him now 1 
259 



landon's poems. 

Tears stand within the brave man's eyes, 

Each softer pulse is stirr'd : 
It is the sickness of the heart, 

Of hope too long deferr'd. 

He's pining for his native seas, 

And for his native shore ; 
All but his honor he wrould give, 

To be at home once more. 
He does not know his children's fate, 

His wife might pass him by, 
He is so aiter'd, did they meet. 

With an unconscious eye : 

He has been many years at sea, 

He's worn with wind and wave ; 
He asks a little breathing space 

Between it and his grave. 
He feels his breath come heavily, 

His keen eye faint and dim. 
It was a weary sacrifice 

That England ask'd of him. 

He never saw his home again — 

The deep voice of the gun. 
The lowering of his battle-flag 

Told when his life was done. 
His sailors walk'd the deck and wept — 

Around them howl'd the gale : 
And far away two orphans knelt — 

A widow's cheek grew pale. 

Amid the many names that light 

Our history's blazon'd line, 
I know not one, brave Collingwood, 

That touches me like thine. 
260 



THE VIOLET. 

Why better than the lady rose 

Love I this little flower 1 
Because its fragrant leaves are those 

I loved in childhood's hour. 

Though many a flower may win my praise, 

The violet has my love ; 
I did not pass my childish days 

In garden or in grove : 

My garden was the window-s^at. 

Upon whose edge was set 
A little vase — the fair, the sweet — 

It was the violet. 

It was my pleasure and my pride ; 

How I did watch its growth ! 
For health and bloom, what plans I tried. 

And often injured both ! 

I placed it in the summer shower, 

I placed it in the sun ; 
And ever, at the evening hour, 

My work seem'd half undone. 

The broad leaves spread, the small buds grew, 

How slow they seem'd to be ! 
At last there came a tinge of blue, — 

'Twas worth the world to me I 

At length the perfume fill'd the room. 

Shed from their purple wreath ; 
No flower has now so rich a bloom, 

Has now so sweet a breath. 
261 



LANDON S POEMS. 

I gather'd two or three, — they seem'd 

Such rich gifts to bestow ; 
So precious in my sight, I deem'd 

That all must think them so. 

Ah ! who is there but would be fain 

To be a child once more ; 
If future years could bring again 

All that they brought before ! 

My heart's world has been long o'erthrown, 

It is no more of flowers ; 
Their bloom is past, their breath is flown, 

Yet I recall those hours. 

Let Nature spread her loveliest, 

By spring or summer nurst : 
Yet still I love the violet best, 

Because I loved it first. 



CHANGE. 



I would not care, at least bo nmch, sweet Spring, 

For the departing color of thy flowers — 

The green leaves, early falling from thy boughs — 

Thy birds, so soon forgetful of their songs — 

Thy skies, whose sunshine ends in heavy showers ; 

But thou dost leave thy memory, like a ghost, 

To haunt the ruin'd heart, which still recurs 

To former beauty ; and the desolate 

Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls 

It was not always desolate. 

Whik those eyes have forgotten the sr&ile 
they wear now, 
When care shall have shadow'd that beautiful 
brow — 

262 



CfiANaSS. 

When thy hopes and thy roses together lie 

dead) 
And thy h^art turns back pining to days that 

are fled— 
Then wilt thou remember what now seema 

to pass 
Like the moonlight on water, the breath-stain 

on glass .' 
0, maiden, the lovely and youthful, to thee 
llow rose4ouch'd the page of thy future 

' must be ! 
By the past, if thou judge it, how little is there 
But flowers that flourish, but hopes that are 

fair ; 
And what is thy present 1 a southern sky'a 

spring, 
With thy feelings and fancies like birds on 

the wingi 
As the rose by the fountain flmgs down on 

the wave 
Its blushes, forgetting its glass in its grave : 
So the heart sheds its color on life's early 

hour. 
But the heart has its fading as well as the 

flower. 
The charm'd light darkens, the rose-leaves are 

gone, 
And life, like the fountain, floats colorless on. 
Said I, when thy beauty's sweet vision was 

fled. 
How wouldst thou turn, pining, to days like 

the dead ! 
O, long ere one shadow shall darken that 

brow, 
Wilt thou weep like a mourner o'er all thou 
lovest now ; 

263 



lanDOn's poems. 

When thy hopes, like spent arrows, fall short 

of their mark ; 
Or, like meteors at midnight, make darkness 

more dark ; 
When thy feelings lie fetter'd like waters in 

frost, 
Or, scatter'd too freely, are wasted and lost ; 
For aye cometh sorrow, when youth has pass'd 

What saith the Arabian 1 Its memory's a sigh, vJ* 



EDITH. 



Weep not, weep not, that in the spring 

We have to make a grave : 
The flowers will grow, the birds will sing, 

The early roses wave ; 
And make the sod we're spreading fair, 

For her who sleeps below : 
We might not bear to lay her there 

In winter frost and snow. 

We never hoped to keep her long. 

When but a fairy child. 
With dancing step and birdlike song, 

And eyes that only smiled ; 
A something shadowy and frail 

Was even in her iflirth ; 
She look'd a flower that one rough gale 

Would, bear away from earth. - 

There was too clear and blue a light 

Within her radiant eyes ; 
They were too beautiful, too bright, 

Too like their native skies: 

2154 



•THE FEAST OF LIFE, 

Too changeable the rose which shed 

Its color on her face : 
Now burning with a passionate red, 

Now with just one faint trace. 

She was too thoughtful for her years, 

Its shell the spirit wore ; 
And when she smiled away our fears. 

We only fear'd the more. 
The crimson deepen'd on her cheek, 

Her blue eyes shone more clear, 
And every day she grew more weak. 

And every hour more dear 



THE FEAST OF LIFE. 

Bid thee to my mystic feast. 
Each one thou lovest is gather'd there; 
Yet put thou on a mourning robe. 
And bind the cypress in thy hair. 
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear ; 
The board with faded Sowers is spread ; 
Shadows of bea'»i4y flit around. 
But beauty from which bloom has fled ; 

And music echoes from the walls. 
But music with a dirge-like sound ; 
And pale and silent are the guests. 
And every eye is on the ground. 
Here, take this cup, though dark it seem, 
And drink to human hopes and fears; 
'Tis from their native element 
The cup is fiU'd — ^it is of tears 

23 285 



LAKr>ON'S POEMS, 

Whait, tttrnest thou with averted brow 1 

Thou scornest this poor ieast of mine j 

And asketh for a purple robe. 

Light words, glad smiles and sunny wino 

In vain — the vail has left thine eyes, 

Or such these would have seera'd to thee. 

Before thee is the Feast of Life, 

But life in its reality ! 



FOLLOW ME? 

A samBter laorning, 'witli its calm, glad light. 

Was ou the fallen castle ; other days 

Were here remember'd vividly ; the past 

Was even as the present, nay, 'perhaps more— 

Por that we do not pause to think upon; 

Eirst, o'er the arching gateway was a shield, 

The sculptured arms defaced, but visible 

Was the bold motto, " Follow me ;" again 

I saw it scroll 'd around the lofty crest 

Which, mouldering, deck'd the ruin'd banq,uet-room ; 

A third time did I trace these characters — 

On the worn pavement of an ancient grave 

Was written, " Eollow me !" 

Follow me ! — 'tis to the battle field — 
No eye must turn, and no step must yield 5 
In the thick of the battle look ye 60 be ; 
On ! — 'tis my banner ye follow, and me. 

Follow me I — 'tis to the festal ring, 

Where the maidens smile and the minstrels 

sing; 
Hark ! to our name is the bright wine pouv'd ; 
Follow me on to the banquet-board ! 

266 



THE EEFLT OF TEE FOUNTAIN. 

Follow me ! — 'tis where the yew-tree bends, 
When the ^rength and the pride of the victor 

ends; 
Pale in the thick grass the wild flowers bI<»ora ; 
Follow me on to the silent tomb ! 



THE REPLY OF THE FOUNTAIN. 

How deep within each human heart 
A thousand treasured feelings lie; 

Things precious, delicate, apart, 
Too sensitive for human eye. 

Our purest feelings, and oar best, 

Yet shrinking from the common view ; 

Rarely except in song exprest, 

And yet how tender, and how true ! 

They wake, and know their power, when eve 
Flings on the west its transient glow ! 

Yet long dark shadows dimly weave 
A gloom round some green path below. 

Who dreams not then — the young dream ok, 
Life traced at hope's delicious will ; 

And those whose youth of heart is gone. 
Perhaps have visions dearer still. 

They rise, too, when expected least, , 

When gay yourself, amid the gay ; 

The heart from revelry hath ceased 
To muse o'er hours long past away. 

And who can think upon the past 
And not weep o'er it as a grave f 
267 



liANDON'S POEMS. 

How many leaves life's wreath has cast ! 
What lights have sunk beneath the wave ! 

But most these deep emotions rise 

When, drooping o'er our thoughts alone ; 

Our former dearest sympathies 

Come back, and claim us for their own. 

Such mood is on the maiden's mind 

Who bends o'er yon clear fount her brow ; 

Long years, that leave their trace behind. 
Long years, are present with her now. 

Yet, once before she ask'd a sign 

From that wild fountain's plaintive song ; 

And silvery, with the soft moonshine, 
Those singing waters pass along. 

It was an hour of beauty, made 

For the young heart's impassion'd mood ; 
For love of its sweet self afraid. 

For hope that colors solitude 

" Alas,'* the maiden sigh'd, " since first 
I said, O fountain, read my doom j 

What vainest fancies have I nurst, 
Of which I am myself the tomb ! 

" The love was check'd — the hope was vain, 
I deemed that I could feel no more ; 

Why, false one, did we meet again, — 
To show thine influence was not o'er ! 

"I thought that I could never weep 
Again, as I had wept for thee ; 

That love was buried cold and deep. 
That pride and scorn kept watch by me. 

268 



THE REPLY OF THE FOUNTAIN. 

" My early hopes, my early tears, 
Were now almost forgotten things ; 

And other cares, and years 

Had brought what all experience brings — 

" Indifference, weariness, disdain, 

That taught and ready smile which grows 

A habit soon — as streams retain 

The shape and light in which they froze. 

" Again I met that faithless eye, 

Again I heard that charmed tongue ; 

I felt they were my destiny, 

I knew again the spell they flung. 

"Ah! years have fled, since last his name 
Was breathed amid the twilight dim ; 

It was to dream of him, I came. 
And now again I dream of him. 

" But changed and cold, my soul has been> 
Too deeply wrung, too long unmoved, 

Too harden'd in life's troubled scene 
To love as I could once have loved. 

" Sweet fountain, once I ask'd thy waves 
To whisper hope's enchanted spell ! 

Now I but ask thy haunted caves 
To teach me how to say farewell !" 

She leaned her head upon her hand, 
She gazed upon that fountain lone. 

Which wander'd by its wild-flower strand 
With a low, mournful, ceaseless moan. 

It soothed her with a sweet deceit 
Of pity, murmur'd on the breeze ; 

Ah, deep the grief which seeks to cheat 
Itself with fantasies like these. 
23* 269 



CORFU. 

Now, doth not summer's sunny smile 

Sink soft o'er that Ionian isle, 

While round the kindling waters sweep 

The murmur'd music of the deep. 

The many melodies that swell 

From breaking wave and red-lipp'd shell ? 

Love mine ! how sweet it were to leave 

This weary world of ours behind. 
And borrow from the blushing eve 

The wild wings of the wandering wind. 

Would we not flee away and find 
Some lonely cave beside the shore ? 
One, where a Nereid dwelt of yore, 
And shelter'd in its glistening bowers, 
A love almost as fond as ours 1 
A diamond spar incrusts the walls, 
A rainbow light from crystal falls ; 
And, musical amid the gloom, 
A fountain's silvery showers illume 
The further darkness, as with ray 
And song it finds its sparkling way. 
A natural lute and lamp — a tone, 
A light, to wilder waves unknown. 
The cave is curtained with the vine, 
And inside wandering branches twine, 
While from the large green leaves escape 
The blooming clusters of the grape ; — 
Fruit with such hyacinthine glow 
As southern sunbeams only know. 
We will not leave it, till the moon 

Lulls with her languid look, the sea ; 

270 



CORFU. 

Sleep, shadow, silence for the noon. 

But midnight Love to wake with thee, 
When the sweet myrtle trees exhale 
The odors of their blossoms pale, 
And dim and purple colors steep 
Those blossoms in their perfumed sleep ; 
Where closed are the cicala's wings, 
And no leaf stirs, nor wild bird sings, 
Lull'd by the dusk air, warm and sweet ; 
Then kneeling, dearest, at thy feet. 
Thy face the only sight I see. 

Thy voice the only sound I hear. 
While midnight's moonlit mystery 

Seems the full heart's enchanted sphere. 
Then should thy own low whisper tell 
Those ancient songs thou lovest so well ; 
Tales of old battles which are known 
To me, but from thy lip alone ; 
Dearer than if the bard again 
Could sound his own imperial strain. 
Ah, folly ! of such dreaming hours, 
That are not, that may not be ours. 
Farewell ! thou far Ionian isle 
That lighted for my love awhile, 
A sweet enchantment form'd to fade. 
Of darker days my life is made ; 
Embittering my reality 
With dreams of all that may not be. 
Such fairy fancies when they part, 
But leave behind a wither'd heart ; 
Dreaming o'er all it hath not known ; 
Alas, and is such heart mine own ! 



271 



RAPHAEL SANZIO. 

This celebrated Italian was essentially the painter 
of beauty. Of the devotion with which he sought its 
inspiration in its presence, a remarkable instance is 
recorded. He either could not or would not paint 
without the presence of his lovely mistress, La Fok- 

NARINA. 

[Ah ! not for him the dull and measured 

eye, 
Which colors nothing in the common sky, 
Which sees but night upon the starry cope, 
And animates with no mysterious hope ; 
Which looks upon a quiet face, nor dreams 
If it be ever tranquil as it seems ; 
Which reads no histories in a passing look, 
Nor on the cheek, which is the heart's own 

book, 
Whereon it writes in rosy characters 
Whate'er emotion in its silence stirs. 

Such are the common people of the soul. 
Of whom the stars write not in their bright 

scroll. 
These, when the sunshine at the noontide 

makes 
Golden fusion in the forest brakes, 
See no sweet shadows gliding o'er the grass. 
Which seems to fill with wild flowers as they 

pass; 
These, from the twilight music of the fount 
Ask not its secret and its sweet account; 
These never seek to read the chronicle 
Which hides within the hyacinth's dimlit bell : 
They know not of the poetry which lies 
Upon tho summer rose's languid eyes ; 
272 



RAPHAEL SANZIO. 

They have no spiritual visitings elysian, 
They dream no dreamings, and they see no 
vision. 
The young Italian was not of the clay, 
That doth to dust one long allegiance pay. 
No ; he was temper'd with that finer flame, 
Which ancient fables say from heaven came ; 
The sunshine of the soul, which fills the earth 
With beauty borrow'd from its place of birth. 
Hence hath the lute its song, the scroll its line ; 
Hence stand the statue glorious as its shrine ; 
Hence the fair picture, kings are fain to win, 
The mind's creation from the world within.] 



Not without me ! — alone, thy hand 

Forgot its art awhile ; 
Thy pencil lost its high command, 

Uncherish'd by my smile. 
It was too dull a task for thee 

To paint remember'd rays ; 
Thou, who were wont to gaze on me, 

And color from that gaze. 

I know that I am very fair, 

I would I were divine, 
To realize the shapes that share 

Those midnight hours of thine. 
Thou sometimes tellest me, how in sleep 

What lovely phantoms seem ; 
I hear thee name them, and I weep, 

Too jealous of a dream. 

But thou didst pine for me, my love, 

Aside thy colors thrown ; 
'Twas sad to raise thine eyes above, 

Unanswer'd by mine own : 
213 



liANDON'S POEMS. 

Thou who art wont to lift those eyes, 

And gather from my face 
The warmth of life's impassion'd dyes. 

Its color and its grace. 

Ah ! let me linger at thy side, 

And sing some sweet old song, 
That tells of hearts as true and tried, 

As. to ourselves belong. 
The love whose light thy colors give, 

Is kindled at the heart ; 
And who shall bid its influence live, 

My Raphael, if we part 1 



PULO PENANG. 

The sail from Penang to Singapore presents the love- 
liest succession of scenery which ocean can produce. 
The sea is studded with tracts of fairy land, glittering 
like emeralds in the golden sun, where the waving 
trees dip their long branches into the water, where 
the smooth sands are covered with shells, sparkling 
with all the hues of the prism. Birds, too, of Orient 
plumage, skim over the surface of the silver sea, or 
glance in and out from groves laden with fruit and 
flowers. The ocean land, locked by these flowery la- 
byrinths, retains its tranquillity even during the sum- 
mer tempests. 

Neteb. — that fairy isle can be 

No lengthen'd resting-place of mine ; 
I love it dearest when I see 

Its shadow lengthen on the brine : 
• And then my heart with softness fills ; 
I think upon its balmy groves, 
I hear the murmur of its rills, 
I hear the singing of its doves. 
2H 



FISHIKG BOATS, 

I see the white catalpa bend, 

As when beneath thy whiter hand, 
The buds in showy showers descend. 

To wreath for thy dark hair a band. 
And tlien I sigh to be on shore 

To linger languid at thy side ; 
I think that I will part no more 

From thee, my own, my idol bride. 

O, only those who part caB know 

How dear the love that absence brings 5 
O'er wind and wave my fancies go, 

As if my very heart had wings ; 
And yet, when listless on the land, 

Impatient in my happiness, 
I long again to grasp my brand. 

Again I long the deck to press. 

I love to see my red flag sweep ; 

I love to see my sabre shine ; 
Almost as much I love the deep 

As I love thosS sweet eyes of thine. 
I bring thee treasures from afar ; 

For thy dear sake I sweep the sea ; 
But for the honor won in war, 

I should be too unworthy thee. 



FISHING BOATS IN THE MONSOON. 

The iTestern coasts of India abouiid with a great 
variety of fish, of excellent quality ; and a consider- 
able population in the villages along the seashore is 
occupied in catching it, and, in a great measure, sub- 
sist upon it. The mode of catching the flsh is as fol- 
lows : — Piles or stakes, of consifersble size and length, 
21b ' 




landon's poems, 

are sunk aad secured at certain distances from the 
shore, extending sometimes several iniles out to sea ; 
these are driven or forced down by fastening hoats to 
them at high water, heavily laden with hallast, which, 
by theiv own ijfeight, as the tide falls, force the stakes 
deeper into the sandy or muddy bottom. This opera- 
tion is further assisted at the same time by a number 
of boatmen swaying upon ropes made fast to the up- 
per part of the stake. To the stakes are attached nets 
of great length, and of very tough materials, capable 
of sustaining the weight of such draughts as occasion- 
ally appear almost miraculous, exhibiting a motley 
assemblage of varieties of fish and other marine pro- 
ductions. 



BuHN yet awhile, ray wasting lamp, 
Though long the night may be ; 

The wind is rough, the air is damp. 
Yet burn awhile for me. 

The peepul tree beside our door, 
How dark its branches wave ; 

They seem as they were drooping o'er 
Its usual haunt, th#grave. 

Why was it planted here to bring 

The images of death ? 
Surely some gladder tree should spring 

Near human hope and breath. 

dove, that dwellest its leaves among, 
I hear thee on the bough ; 

1 hear thy melancholy song, 

Why art thou singing now ? 

All things are omens to the heart 

That keeps a vigil lone, 
When wearily the hours depart, 

And yet night is not flown. 

276 



THE MONTMOEENCY WATEEFALL. 

I see the lights amid the bay, 
How pale and wan they shino ; 

wind, that wanderest on thy way, 
Say which of them is mine. ' 

A weary lot the fisher hath 

Of danger and of toil ; 
Over the wild waves is his path, 

Amid their depths his spoil. 

1 cannot hear the wind go by 

Without a sudden fear ; 
I cannot look upon the sky, 
Nor fear that storms are near. 

I look upon the sunny sea. 
And think of l-ocks below; 

Still present are the shoals to me 
O'er which my love must go. 

I cannot sleep as others sleep, 
Night has more care than day ; 

My heart is out upon the deep, 
I weep — I watch— T pray. 

Ah, see a speck the waves among, 
A light boat cuts the foam ; 

The wild wind beareth me his song ; 
Thank God, he is come home ! 



THE MONTMORENCY WATER-FALL 
AND CONE. 

" When the river St. Lawrence is frozen below the 
Falls, the level ice becomes a support on which the 
freezing spray descends as sleet : it there remains, and 
24 271 






lanbon's poems, 

gradually assumes the figure of an irregular coaSj 
wUcli continues to enlarge its dimensions till, toward 
the close of the winter, it becomes stupendous. The 
height of the cone varies considerably, in different sea- 
sons ; as the quantity of spray depends on the supply 
of water to the Falls— -the spray, of course, being most 
dense when the rush of water is strong and impetuous. 
In 1829 and 1832, it did not reach a greater altitude! 
than one hundred and thirty feet. The face of the 
cone, opposite to the Palls, differs from the rest of it3 
surface, it being composed of stalactites ; this forma* 
tion arises from the dashing of the Water against its 
base, which freezes in its descent, and by the continual 
action produces enormous icicles."— "The formation 
of this cone may serve to explain the origin of gla- 
ciers." 

" To the inhabitants of Quebec, the cone ia a source 
of endless amusement. When the weather is tem« 
perate, parties in single-horse curricles and tandems 
are seen hurrying to the spot, to enjoy the beauty of 
the scene, and to make descents, upon small sleighs, 
from the top of the cone to the plain below." 

We do not ask for the leaves and flowers 
That laugh as they look on the summer hours ; 
Let the violets shrink and sigh, 
Let the red rose pine and die ; 
The sledge is yoked, away we go, 
Amid the firs, o'er the soundless snoWj 

Lo ! the pine is singing its murmuring song, 
Over our heads as we pass along ; 
And every bough with pearl is hung, 
Whiter than those that from ocean sprung^ 
The sledge is yoked, away we go. 
Amid the firs, o'er the soundless snow. 

The ice is bright with a thousand dyes. 
Like the changeful light in a beauty's eyes, 
Now it weareth her blush, and now 
It weareth the white of her marble brow. 

278 



CAFES IN DAMASCUS. 

The sledge is yoked, and away we go, 
Beneath the firs, o'er the soundless snow 

We are wrapped with ermine and sable round, 
By the Indian in trackless forests found ; 
The sunbeams over the white world shine, 
And we carry with us the purple wine. 
The sledge is yoked, and away we go, 
Beneath the firs, o'er the soundless snow. 



CAFES IN DAMASCUS.* 

" And Mahomet turned aside, and would not enter 
the fair city: ' It is,' said lie, 'too delicious.'" 

Languidly the night wind bloweth 

From the gardens round. 
Where the clear Barrada floweth, 

With a lulling sound. 

Not the lute note's sweetest shiver 

Can such music find, 
As is on a wandering river, • 

On a wandering wind. 

There the Moslem leaneth, dreaming 

O'er the inward world, 
While around the fragrant steaming 

Of the smoke is curl'd. 



* The £afes are perhaps the greatest luxury that a 
stranger finds in Damascus. Gardens, kiosquei, foun- 
tains, and groves, are abundant around every Eastern 
capital ; but cafes on the very bosom of a rapid river, 
and bathed by its waves, are peculiar to this ancient 
city : they are formed so as to exclude the rays of the 
sun while they admit the breeze. 
279 



landon's poems. 

Rising from the coffee berry, 

Dark grape of the south ; 
Or the pipe of polish'd cherry, 

With its amber mouth. 

Cool'd by passing through the water, 

Gurgling as it flows — 
Scented by the Summer's daughter, 

June's impassioned rose. 

By that Rose's spirit haunted 

Are the dreams that rise, 
Of far lands, and lives enchanted, 

And of deep black eyes. 

Thus, with some sweet dream's assistance. 
Float they down life's stream ; 

Would to Heaven, our whole existence 
Could be such a dream ! 



THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS. 



" Is this the way to the celestial city 7 
"You are just iu the way. 

". They weiit up the monatains, to behold the 

gardens and the orchards." — Pilgrim's Progress. 



O, FAR away ye are, ye lovely hills, 

Yet can I feel the air 

Grow sweet while gazing where 
The valley with the distant sunshine fills. 

280 



SlK EOBEETPEEIj. 

Fair Morning ! lend thy wings, and let me fly- 
To thy eternal home, 
Where never shadows come. 

Where tears are wiped away from every eye. 

I'm weary, -weary of this earth of ours ; 

I'm sick with the heart's want ; 

My fever'd spirits pant 
To cling to things less transient than its flowers. 

I ask of the still night — it answers me, 

This earth is not my home : 

Great Father ! let me come, 
A wanderer and a penitent, to Thee ! 

Ye far, fair mountains echo with my cry, 

Unto your realm of bliss 

The grave the threshold is ; 
Let its dark portals open — let me die ! 



SIR ROBERT PEEL. 

Mrs. Hemans' last tours were cheered by the kind- 
ness of Sir Eobert Peel : and the letter promising an 
appointment to her eldest son, was one of the latest 
that she received. This fact is my excuse for having 
deviated from my general rule of leaving contempo" 
rary portraits to speali for themselves. I frankly con- 
fess that I can never write till interested in my sub- 
jects. Now, a female writer cannot pretend to even 
an opinion on the political and public characters of 
the day. The above incident, on the contrary, be- 
longs to the many who look back with admiration 
and gratitude to the gifted and the gone. 

Dim through the curtains came the purple 
twilight slowly. 
Deepening like death's shadow around that 
silent room ; 
24* 281 



landon's poems. 

There lay a head, a radiant head, but lowly, 
And the pale face like a statue shone out 
amid the gloom. 
Never again will those white and wasted fin- 
gers 
Waken the music they were wont to wake 
of yore, 
A music that in many a beating heart yet lin- 
gers, 
The sweeter and the sadder that she will 
breathe no more. 
It is a lovely world that the minstrel leaves be- 
hind him. 
It is a lovely world in which the minstrel 
lives ; 
Deep in its inmost life hath the soul of love 
enshrined him, 
And passionate and general the pleasures 
which he gives. 
But dear-bought is the triumph ! what dark 
fates are recorded 
Of those who held sweet mastery o'er the 
pulses of the lute. 
Mournfully and bitterly their toil has been re- 
warded. 
For them the tree of knowledge puts forth 
its harshest fruit. 
Glorious and stately the ever-growing laurel, 
Flinging back the summer sunshine, defy- 
ing winter's snow ; 
Yet its bright history has the darkly pointed 
moral. 
Deadly are the poisons that through its 
green leaves flow. 
And she, around whose couch the gentle day 
light, dying, 
Seems like all nature's loving, last farewell 
282 



A DUTCH INTERIOR. 

She, with the world's heart to her own soft one 
replying, 
How much of song's fever and sorrow could 
she tell ! 
Yet upon her lip a languid smile is shining : 
Tokens of far-oflf sympathy have sooth'd 
that hour of pain ; 
Its sympathy has warm'd the pallid cheek, re- 
clining 
On the weary pillow whence it will not rise 
again. 
It is the far-off friend, the unknown she is 
blessing. 
The statesman who has paused upon toils' 
hurried way, 
To learn the deepest charm that power has in 
possessing, 
The power to scatter benefits and blessing 
round its sway. 



A DUTCH INTERIOR. 

Thet were poor, and by their cabin. 
Pale want sat at the door ; 

And the summer to their harvest 
Brought insufficient store. 

On one side, the fierce ocean 
Proclaim'd perpetual war ; 

On the other, mighty nations 
Were threatening from afar. 



283 



# 



LANDON S POEMS. 

Foes and seas denied a footing, 
On the very ground they trod ; 

But they had their native courage, 
And they had their trust in God. 

They made the sea defender 
Of the lately threaten'd shore ; 

And their tall and stately vessels 
Sailed the conquer'd waters o'er. 

To the poor and scanty cabin, 

Pour'd wealth from East and West ; 

And freedom came with commerce, 
From all old times her guest. 

Dyke by dyke they beat their enemies, 

As they had beat the sea ; 
Til! Faith stood by her altar, 

Secure — triumphant — free.* 



LORD MELBOURNE. 

It is a glorious task to guide 

The vessel though the dashing tide 

* The brilliant theory of a republic has never been 
reduced to more rational practice than in the history 
of Holland. Commerce, religious toleration, security 
of life and property, and universal instruction — these 
have been the principles of the states from the very 
first. Liberty can have no securer foundations. We 
know of nothing finer in all history, than their un- 
equal but triumphant struggle with le Grand Mo- 
narque. The spirit whi<>h animated the young and 
gallant Prince of Orange was that of the whole na- 
tion. VTou will see the ruin of your country," was 
the prophecy of those who looked to the inferior means, 
not to the superior spirit. "Never," was the heroic 
reply, "for I will die in her last ditch." 
284 



THE EVENING STAE. 

When dark is the tumultuous sea 
And thunder clouds are on the lea ; 
While war-notes mount upon the wind 
From the fierce storm that rides behind. 

And such a task it is to steer 
A people in their high career, 
When old opinions war, and change 
Is sudden, violent, and strange ; 
And men recall the past, to say, 
So shall not be the coming day. 

Such time is passing o'er our land, 
New thoughts arise — new hopes expand. 
And man knows in his own strong will 
It is his purpose to fulfill ; 
In the fierce contest of such hour, 
How mighty is the leader's power ! 

More glorious than the conqueror's brand,' 

The rule intrusted to such hand. 

From it the past and present claim 

The rights they teach, the hopes they frame. 

Do what the island of the free ; 

What England should expect of thee ! 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Ah, loveliest! that through my casement 
gleaming, 
Bringeth thy native heaven along with thee, ' 
Touching with far-oflf light that lovelier dream- 
ing, 
Which but for that, all earthly else would be. 
285 



landon's poems 

The smoke is round the housetops slowly 
wreathing, 
Until, upgather'd in one gloomy cloud, 
It rises like the city's heavy breathing, 

Material, dense, the sunshine's spreading 
shroud. 

Night knows not silence, for that living ocean 
Pants night and day with its perpetual flow ; 

Stirring the unquiet air with restless motion, 
From that vast human tide which rolls be- 
low. 

Trouble and discontent, and hours whose dial 

Is in the feverish heart which knows not 

rest ; 

These give the midnight's sinking sleep denial, 

These leave the midnight's dreaming couch 

unprest. 

But thou, sweet Star, amid the harsh and real, 
The cares that harass night with thoughts 
of day. 

Dost bring the beautiful and the ideal, 
Till the freed spirit wanders far away. 

Then come the lofty hope — the fond remem- 
brance, 
All dreams that in the heart its youth renew. 
Till it doth take, fair phinet, thy resemblance, 
And fills with tender light, and melts with' 
dew. 

What though it be but a delicious error. 

The influence that in thy beauty seems, 
Still let love — song — and hope — make thee 
their mirror : 
O, life and earth, what were ye without 
dreams ! 

286 



FELICIA HEMANS. 

Ko more, no more^^^O, never more returning, 

Will thy beloved presence gladden earth ; 
No more wilt thou with sad, yet anxious 
yearning, 
Cling to those hopes which have no mortal 
birth. 
Thou art gone from us, and with thee de* 
parted. 
How many lovely things have vanish'd too 8 
Deep thoughts that at thy will to being started, 
And feelings, teaching us our own were true. 
Thou hast been round us, like a viewless 
spirit. 
Known only by the music on the air ; 
The leaf or flowers which thou hast named 
\j inherit 
A beauty known but from thy breathing 
there : 
For thou didst on them fling thy strong emo* 
tion, 
The likeness from itself the fond heart gave \ 
As planets from afar look down on ocean, 
And give their own sweet image to the wave* 

And thou didst bring from foreign lands thbit 
■ treasures, 

As floats thy various melody along ; 
We know the softness of Italian measures. 

And the grave cadence of Castilian song. 
A general bond of union is the poet. 

By its immortal verse is language known, 
And for the sake of song do others know it — ■ 

One glorious poet makes the wodd his own. 
28? 



landon's poems. 

And thou, how far thy gentle sway extended I 

The heart's sweet erxipire over land and sea ; 
Many a stranger and far flower was blended 

In the soft wreath that glory bound for thee. 
I'he echoes of the Susquehanna's waters 

Paused, in the pine-woods, words of thine to 
hear; 
And to the wide Atlantic's younger daughters 

Thy name was lovely, and thy song was 
dear. 

Was not this purchased all too dearly ■?— never 

Can fame atone for all that fame hath cost. 

We see the goal, but know not the endeavor, 

IVor what fond hopes have on the way been 

lost. 

What do we know of the unquiet pillow, 

By the wan cheek and tearful eyelid prest, 
When thoughts chase thoughts^ like the tu- 
multuous billowj 
Whose very light and foam reveals unrest ? 
We say the song is sorrowful, but know not 
What may have left that sorrow on the 
song; 
However mournful words may be, they show 
not 
The whole extent of wretchedness and 
wrong. 
They cannot paint the long sad hours, pass'd 
only 
In vain regrets o'er what we feel we are* 
Alas ! the kingdom of the lute is lonely- 
Cold is the worship coming from afar. 

/ Fet what is mind in woman but revealing 
In sweet clear light the hidden world below 

288 



FELICIA HEMANS. 

By quicker fancies and a keener feeling 

Than those around, the cold and careless, 
know ] 
What is to feed such feeling, but to culture 

A soil whence pain will never more depart 1 
The fable of Prometheus and the vulture, 

Reveals the poet's and the woman's heart. 
Unkindly are they judged — unkindly treated, 
By careless tongues and by ungenerous 
words ; 
While cruel sneer, and hard reproach, repeated, 

Jar the fine music of the spirit's chords. 
Wert thou not weary — thou whose soothing 
numbers 
Gave other lips the joy thine own had not 1 
Didst thou not welcome thankfully the slum- 
bers 
Which closed around thy mourning human 
lot? 

What on this^earth could answer thy requir- 
ing, 
For earnest faith — for love, the deep and 
true, 
The beautiful, which was thy soul's desiring, 

But only from thyself its being drew. 
How is the warm and loving heart requited 
In this harsh world, where it awhile must 
dwell ! 
Its best affections wrong'd, betray'd, and 
slighted — 
Such is the doom of those who love too well. 
Better the weary dove should close its pinion. 
Fold up its golden wings and be at peace ! 
Enter, O ladye, that serene dominion, 

Where earthly cares and earthly sorrows 
cease. 
25 289 



lanbon's foems. 

Fame's troubled hour has clear'd, and now re- 
plying 
A thousand hearts their masic ask of thine. 
Sleep with a light, the lovely and undying, 
Around thy grave — a grave which is a 
£>hrine. 



GIBRALTAR— FROM THE SEA 

Dowx 'mid the waves, accursed bark, 
Down, down before the wind : 

Thou canst not sink to doom more dark 
Than that thou leanest behind. 

Down, down for his accursed sake 
Whose hand is on thy helm ; 

Above, the heaving billows break- 
Will they not overwhelm I 

The blood is red upon the deck. 

Of murder, not of strife ; 
Now, Ocean, let the hour of wreck 

Atone for that of life ! 

Many a brave heart has grown cold. 
Though battle has been done ; 

And shrieks have risen from the hold. 
When human help was none. 

We've sail'd amid the Spanish lines. 

The black flag at the mast ; 
And burning towns and rifled shrines 

Proclaimed where we had past. 
290 



GIBKALTAK — FEOM THE SEA. 

The captive's low and latest cry 

Has risea on the night ; 
While night carousals mock'd the sky 

With their unholy light. 

The captain he is young and fair — 
How can he look so young ? 

His locks of youth, his golden hair, 
Are o'er his shoulders flung. 

Of all the deeds that he has done. 

Not one has left a trace ; 
The midnight cup, the noontide sun. 

Have darken'd not his face. 

His voice is low — his smile is sweet — 

He has a girl's blue eyes ; 
And yet I would far rather meet 

The storm in yonder skies. 

The fiercest of our pirate band 
Holds at his name the breath ; 

For there is blood on his right hand, 
And in his heart is death. 

He knows he rides above his grave, 

Yet careless is his eye ; 
He looks with scorn upon the wave. 

With scorn upon the sky. 

Great God ! the sights that I have seen 

When far upon the main ; 
Fd rather that my death had been 

Than see those sights again ! 

Pale faces glimmer, and are gone — 
Wild voices rise from shore ; 

I see one giant wave sweep on — 
It breaks ! — we rise no more. 
291 



J 



RYDAL WATER AND GRASMERE 
LAKE. 

THE HESIDEXCE OF ■WOHDS'WOBTH. 

Not for the glory on their heads 

Those stately hill-tops wear, 
Although the summer sunset sheds 

Its constant crimson there. 
Not for the gleaming lights that break 
The purple of the twilight lake, 

Half dusky and half fair, 
Does that sweet valley seem to be 
A sacred place on earth to me. 

The influence of a moral spell 

Is found around the scene. 
Giving new shadows to the dell, 

New verdure to the green. 
With every mountain top is wrought 
The presence of associate thought, 

A music that has been ; 
Calling that loveliness to life 
With which the inward world is rife. 

His home — our English poet's home — 

Amid these hills is made ; 
Here, with the morning, hath he come, 

There, with the night delay'd. 
On all things is his memory cast, 
For every place wherein he past 

Is with his mind array'd. 
That, wandering in a summer hour, 
Ask'd wisdom of the leaf and flower. 
292 



EYDAL WATER. 

Great poet, if I dared to throw 

My homage at thy feet, 
'Tis thankfulness for hours which thou 

Hast made serene and sweet ; 
As wayfarers have incense thrown 
Upon some mighty altar stone. 

Unworthy, and yet meet, 
The human spirit longs to prove 
The truth of its uplooking love. 

Until thy hand unlock'd its store, 

What glorious music slept ! 
Music that can be hush'd no more 

Was from our knowledge kept. 
But the great Mother gave to thee 
The poet's universal key. 

And forth the fountains swept — 
A gushing melody forever, 
The witness of thy high endeavor. 

Rough is the road which we are sent, 

Kough with long toil and pain ; 
And when upon the steep ascent, 

A little way we gain, 
Vex'd with onr own perpetual care, 
Little we heed what sweet things are 

Around our pathway blent ; 
With anxious steps we hurry on. 
The very sense of pleasure gone. 

But thou dost in this feverish dream 

Awake a better mood ; 
With voices from the mountain stream, 

With voices from the wood. 
And with their music dost impart 
Their freshness to the world-worn heart, 

Whose fever is subdued 
25* 293 



landon's poems. 

By memories sweet with other years, 
By gentle hopes and soothing tears. 

A solemn creed is thine, and high. 

Yet simple as a child 
Who looketh hopeful to yon sky 

With eyes yet undefiled. 
By all the glitter and the glare 
This life's deceits and follies wear, 

Exalted, and yet mild ; 
Conscious of those diviner powers 
Brought fram a better world than ours. 

Thou hast not chosen to rehearse 

The old heroic themes ; 
Thou has not given to thy verse 

The heart's impassion'd dreams. 
Forth flows thy song as waters flow 
So bright above — so calm below, 

Wherein the heaven seems 
Eternal as the golden shade, 
Its sunshine on the stream hath laid. 

The glory which thy spirit hath, 
Is round life's common things. 

And flingeth round our common path. 
As from an' angel's wings, 

A light that is not of our sphere, 

Yet lovelier for being here ; 

Beneath whose presence springs 

A beauty never mark'd before. 

Yet once known, vanishing no more. 

How often with the present sad. 

And weary with the past, 
A sunny respite have we had. 

By but a chance look cast 
294 



HURDWAR. 

Upon some word of thine, that made 
The suUenness forsake the shade, 

Till shade itself was past : 
For Hope divine, serene, and strong. 
Perpetual lives within thy song. 

Eternal as the hills thy name — 

Eternal as thy strain ; 
So long as ministers of Fame 

Shall Love and Hope remain. 
The crowded city in its streets, 
The valley, in its green retreats. 

Alike thy words retain. 
What need hast thou of sculptured stone 1 
Thy temple, is thy name alone. 



HURDWAR— THE GATE OF VISHNOO. 

Fling wide the sacred city gates. 

Wide on the open air : 
A higher Conqueror awaits, 

Than he whose name they bear. 

He comes not in the strength of war, 

He comes not in its pride ; 
No banners are around his car, 

No trumpets at his side. 

Not in the midst of armed bands 
The Christian Chief appears ; 

No swords are in his followers' hand, • 
They strive with prayers and tears. 

295 



landon's poems. 

For faint and weak those followers seem, 

Yet mighty is their voice : 
The Ganges' old and holy stream 

Will in its depths rejoice. 

Low is the voice with which they plead — 

A voice of peace and love ; 
Peaceful and loving is the creed 

Whose emblem is the dove. 

Far in the east a star arose, 

And with its rising brought, 
God's own appointed hour to those 

By whom it had been sought. 

And still that guiding star hath shone 

O'er all its light hath won ; 
And it will still keep shining on 

Until its work be done. 

A glorious ending at its birth 

^ Was to that planet given ; 

For never will it set on earth 

Till earth is lost in heaven. 

Fling wide the ancient city's gates. 
The hours of night are past ; 

And Christ, the Conqueror, awaits 
Earth's holiest and her last. 



GIBRALTAR. 

FHOM THE aUEEN OF SPAIn's CHAIH. 

High on the rock that fronts the sea 
Stands alone our fortress-key ; 
296 



ADMIRAL BENBOW. 

Ladye of the southern main, 
Ladye, too, of stately Spain. 

Look which way her eye she bends, 
Where'er she will her sway extends ; 
Free on air her banner thrown, _ 

Half the world it calls its own. 

Let her look upon the strand — 
Never was more lovely land ; 
Had her rule dominion there, 
It were free as it is fair. 

Let her look across the waves, 
They are but her noblest slaves ; 
Sweeping north or south, they still 
Bear around her wealth and will. 

Siege and strife these walls have borne, 
By the red artillery torn ; 
Human life has pour'd its tide. 
In the galleries at her side. 

But the flag that o'er her blows. 
Rival nor successor knows ; 
Lonely on the land and sea, 
Where it has been, it will be. 

Safe upon her sea-beat rock. 
She might brave an army's shock ; 
For the British banner keeps 
Safe the fortress where it sweeps. 



ADMIRAL BENBOW. 

The Admiral stood upon the deck, 
Before a shot was thrown ; 

297 



landon's poems. 

Before him rode a Frenchman's fleet, 
Behind him lay his own. 

Six gallant ships upon the sea 
Their stately shadows cast ; 

In all of them St. George's flag 
Was waving at the mast. 

Dark was the shadow on the sea, 

And dark upon the sky ; 
In stillness like the coming storm. 

The English fleet sail'd by. 

Our Admiral he gave the word — 

Up rose the gallanj; crew ; 
And far across the sounding seas 

Their iron welcome threw. 

The earthly thunder of the deep 
Pour'd from the Breda's side ; 

With welcome fiery as their own, 
The Fleur-de-lis replied. 

" Signal to form our battle-line !" 
The English admiral said ; 

At once above the rising smoke 

The signal-flags are spread. " 

The wind sprung up — a hotter fire 

Is carried o'er the flood ; 
The deck whereon the seamen stand, 

Is slippery with blood. 

The smoke that rises from the guns • 

Rolls on the heavy air ; 
So thick above 'twere vain to ask 

If heaven itself be there. 
298 






ADMIRAL BENBOW. 

The thunder growls along the deep, 

The echoing waves reply ; 
Yet, over all is heard the groan. 

Deep, faint, of those who die. 

The wind goes down, down drop the sails, 

Awhile the conflict stops ; 
A last chain-shot sweeps o'er the deck — 

Our Admiral — he drops ! 

What careth he for life or wound 1 
The flowing blood they check 5 

Again, though helpless as a child. 
They bear him to the deck. 

With heavy eyes he looks around-^ 

An angry man was he ; 
He sees three English frigates lie 

All idle on the sea. 

« Out on the cowards !" mutter'd he. 

Then turn'd to where, beside. 
The Ruby, his true consort, lay 

A wreck upon the tide. 

There is no time for thought or word. 

The French are coming fast ; 
Again the signal-flag is hung 

Unnoticed at his mast. 

A raking fire sweeps through her deck. 

The Breda has resign'd ; 
For the first time her sails are spread. 

And with the foe behind. 
299 



lanbon's poems. 

They take the dying Admiral, 

They carry him ashore ; 
They lay him on the bed of death 

From whence he rose no more. 

But not unhonored is his name— 
Recall'd and honor'd long ; 

His name on many a song that speeds 
The midnight watch along. 

But for the cowards who could leave 
The brave man to his doom, 

Theirs was the scorned memory, 
And theirs the nameless tomb. 

They died — their long dishonor flung 

Forever on the wave ; 
Time brings no silence to the shame 

Cast on the coward's grave. 



ROLAND'S TOWER. 

A LEGEND OF THE BHIITE. 

Heaven ! the deep fidelity of love ! 

Where, like a courser starting from the 
spur, 
Rushes the deep-blue current of the Rhine, 
A little island rests ; green cypresses 
Are its chief growth, bending their heavy 

boughs 
O'er gray stones marking long-forgotten 
graves. 

300 



rolanb's towkr. 

A convent once stood here ; and yet remain 
Relics of other times, pillars and walls, 
Worn away and discolor'd, yet so hung 
With wreaths of ivy that th? work of ruin 
Is scarcely visible. How like this is 
To the so false exterior of the world ! 
Outside all looks so fresh and beautiful ; 
But mildew, rot, and worm, work on beneath, 
Until the heart is utterly decay 'd. 
There is one grave distinguish'd from the rest, 
But only by a natural monument: — 
A thousand deep-blue violets have grown 
Over the sod. I do love violets : 
They tell the history of woman's love ; 
They open with the earliest breath of spring ; 
Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew, and light ; 
And, if they perish, perish with a sigh 
Delicious as that life. On the hot June 
They shed no perfume ; the flowers may re- 
main. 
But the rich breathing of their leaves is past; 
Like woman, they have lost their loveliest gift, 
When yielding to the fiery hour of passion : 
The violet breath of love is purity. 

On the shore opposite, a tower stands 
In ruins, with a mourning-robe of moss 
Hung on the gray and shatter'd walls, which 

fling 
A shadow on the waters ; it comes o'er 
The waves, all bright with sunshine, like the 

gloom 
Adversity throws on the heart's young glad- 



I saw the river on a summer eve ; / 

The sun was setting over fields of corn — / 

26 301 



landon's poems. 

'Twas like a golden sea ; — and on the left 
Were vineyards, ■whence the grapes shone 

forth like gems, 
Eubies, and lighted amber ; and thence spread 
A wide heath cover'd with thick furze, whose 

flowers. 
So bright, are like the pleasures of this world, 
Beautiful in the distance, but, once gain'd. 
Little worth, piercing through the thorns 

which grow 
Around them ever. Wilder and more steep 
The banks upon the river's other side : 
Tall pines rose up like warriors ; the wild rose 
Was there in all its luxury of bloom, 
Sown by the wind, nursed by the dew and 

sun ! 
And on the steeps were crosses gray and old, 
Which told the fate of some poor traveler. 
The dells were fiU'd with dwarfed oaks and 

firs; 
And on the heights which master'd all the 

rest, 
Were castles, tenanted now by the owl, 
The spider's garrison : there is not one 
Without some strange old legend of the days 
When love was life and death— when lady's 

glove 
Or sunny curl were banners of the battle.-— 
My history is of the tower which looks 
Upon the little island. 

LoED Herbert sat him in his hall : the 
hearth 
Was blazing as it mock'd the storm without 
With its red cheerfulness : the dark hounds 

lay 
Around the fire ; and the old knight had dolFd 
302 



ROLANDS TOWER. 

His hunting-cloak, and listened to the lute 
And song of the fair girl who at his knee 
Was seated. In the April hour of life, 
When showers are led by rainbows, and the 

heart 
Is all bloom and green leaves, was Isabelle : 
A band of pearls, white like the brow o'er 

which 
They past, kept the bright curls from off the 

forehead ; thence 
They wander'd to her feet — a golden shower. 
She had that changing color on the cheek 
Which speaks the heart so well ; those deep- 
blue eyes, 
Like summer's darkest sky, but not so glad — 
They were too passionate for happiness. 
Light was within her eyes, bloom on her 

cheek, 
Her song had raised the spirit of her race 
Upon her eloquent brow. She had just told 
Of the young Roland's deeds — how he had 

.stood 
Against a host and conquer'd ; when there 

came 
A pilgrim to the hall — and never yet 
Had stranger ask'd for shelter and in vain ! 
The board was spread, the Rhenish flask was 

drain'd ; 
Again they gather'd round the hearth, again 
The maiden raised her song ; and at its close, 
« I would give worlds," said she, " to see this 

chief, 
This gallant Roiand ! I could deem him al» 
A man must honor and a woman love !" 
" Lady, 1 pray thee not recall those words, 
For I am Roland !" From his face he threw 
303 



landon's poems. 

The hood and pilgrim's cloak — and a young 

knight 
Knelt before Isabeile ! 

They loved — they were beloved. O, happi- 
ness ! 
I have said all that can be said of bliss 
In saying that they loved. The young heart 

has 
Such store of wealth in its, own fresh wild 

pulse ; 
And it is love that works the mind, and brings 
Its treasure to the light. I did love once — 
Loved as youth — woman — genius loves; — 

though now 
My heart is chill'd and sear'd and taught to 

wear , 
That falsest of false things — a mask of smiles ; 
Yet every pulse throbs at the memory 
Of that which has been I Love is like the 

glass 
That throws its own rich color over all, 
And makes all beautiful. The morning looks 
Its very loveliest, when the fresh air 
Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad 

red; 
And the hot noon flits by most rapidly. 
When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page 
Bearing the poet's words of love ; and then 
The twilight walk, when the link'd arms can 

feel 
The beating of the heart ; upon the air 
There is a music never heard but once — 
A light the eyes can never see again ; 
Each star has its own prophecy of hope. 
And every song and tale that breathe of love 
Seem echoes of the heart. 
304 



boland's tower. 

And time past by — 
As time will ever pass, when Love hath lent 
His rainbow plumes to aid his flight — and 

spring 
Had wedded with the summer, when a steed 
Stood at LoKD Herbert's gate — and Isa- 

BEILE 

Had wept farewell to Roland, and had given 
Her blue scarf for his colors. He was gone 
To raise his vassals ; for Lord Herbert's 

towers 
Were menaced with a siege, and he had 

sworn 
By Isabelle's white hand that he would 

claim 
Its beauty only as a conqueror's prize. 
Autumn was on the woods, when the blue 

Rhine 
Grew red with blood: — Lord Herbert's 

banner flies, 
And gallant is the bearing of his ranks. 
But where ishe who said that he would ride 
At his right hand to battle ? Roland ! where, 
O where is Roland ? 

IsABELLE has watch'd 
l)ay after day, night after night, in vain. 
Till she has wept in hopelessness, and 

thought 
Upon old histories, and said with them, 
" There is no hope in man's fidelity !" 
IsABELLE stood upon her lonely tower ; 
And, as the evening star rose up, she saw 
An armed train bearing her father's banner 
In triumph to the castle. Down she flew 
To greet the victors : — they had reach'd the 

hall 
26* 305 



landon's poems. 

Before herself. What saw the maiden there t 
A bier ! — her father laid upon that bier ! 
RoLAS-D was kneeling by the side, his face 
Bow'd on his hands and hid ; but Isabelle 
Knew the dafk curling hair and stately form, 
And threw her on his breast. He shrank 

away 
As she were death, or sickness, or despair. 
"IsABELiE, it was I who slew thy father !" 
She fell almost a corpse upon the body. 
It was too true ! With ail a lover's speed, 
Roland had sought the thickest of the fight 
He gain'd the field just as the crush began ; — 
Unwitting of his colors, he had slain 
The father of his worshipp'd Isabelle ! 

They met once more ; — and Isabelle was 

changed 
As much as if a lapse of years had past ; 
She was so thin, so pale, and her dim eye 
Had wept away its luxury of blue. 
She had cut off her sunny hair, and wore 
A robe of black, with a white crucifix ; — 
It told her destiny — her youth was vow'd 
To heaven ; and in the convent of the isle 
That day she was to enter. Rolaxd stood 
Like marble, cold, and pale, and motionless : 
The heavy sweat upon his brow was all 
His sign of life. At length he snatch'd the 

scarf 
That Isabelle had tied around his neck. 
And gave it her — and pray'd that she would 

wave 
Its white folds from the lattice of her cell 
At each pale rising of the evening star. 
That he might know she lived. They parted — 

never 

306 



THE COVENANTEES. 

Those lovers met again ! But Roland built 
A tower beside the Rhine, and there he dwelt. 
And every evening saw the white scarf wav'd, 
And heard the vesper hymn of Isabelle 
Float in deep sweetness o'er the silent river. 
One evening — and he did not see the scarf — 
He watch'd and watch'd in vain ; at length hit 

hope 
Grew desperate, and he pray'd his Isabelle 
Might have forgotten him: — but midnight 

came 
And with it came the convent's heavy bell, 
Tolling for a departed soul ; and then 
He knew that Isabelle was dead ! Next day 
They laid her in her grave ; — and the moon 

rose 
Upon a mourner weeping there : — that tomb 
Was Roland's death-bed ! t,u x-i^--^^ 



THE COVENANTERS. 

Mine home is tut a blacken'd heap, 

In the midst of a lonesome wild ; 
And the owl and the bat may their night-watch keep, 

Where human faces smiled. 

I rock'd the cradle of seven fair sons. 

And I work'd for their infancy ; 
But, when like a child in mine own old age. 

There are none to work for me I 

Nevek ! I will not know another home. 
The summers have past on, with their blue 

skies, 
Green leaves, and singing birds, and sun- 



kiss'd fruit, 



3or 



landon's poems. 

Since here I first took up my last abode — 
And here my bones shall rest. You say it is 
A home for beasts, and not for human kind, 
This hleak shed and bare rock, and that the 

vale 
Below is beautiful. I know the time 
When it look'd very beautiful to me ! 
Do you see that bare spot, where one old oak 
Stands black and leafless, as if scorch'd by 

fire, 
While round it the ground seems as if a curse 
Were laid upon the soil 1 Once by that tree, 
Then cover'd with its leaves and acorn crop, 
A little cottage stood : 'twas very pmall, 
But had an air of health and peace. The roof 
Were every morning vocal with the song 
Of the rejoicing swallows, whose warm nests 
Were built in safety underneath the thatch ; 
A honeysuckle on the sunny side 
Hung round the lattices its fragrant trumpets. 
Around was a small garden: fruit and herbs 
Were there in comely plenty : and some 

flowers, 
Heath from the mountains, and the wilding 

bush 
Gemm'd with red roses, and white apple 

blossoms, 
Were food for the two hives, whence all day 

long 
There came a music like the pleasant sound 
Of lulling waters. And at eventide 
It was a goodly sight to see around 
Bright eyes, and faces lighted up with health, 
And youth, and happiness; these were my 

children, 
That cottage was mine home. . . . 
308 



THE COVENANTEES. 

There came a shadow o'er the land, and 
men 
Were hunted by their fellow-men like beasts, 
And the sweet feelings of humanity 
Were utterly forgotten ; the white head, 
Darken'd with blood and dust, was often laid 
Upon the murder'd infant, for the sword 
Of pride and cruelty was sent to slay 
Those who in age would not forego the faith 
They had grown up in. I was one of these : 
How could I close the Bible I had read 
Beside my dying mother, which had given 
To me and mine such comfort 1 But the hand 
Of the oppressor smote us. There were shrieks, 
And naked swords, and faces dark as guilt, 
A rush of feet, a bursting forth of flame 
Curses, and crashing boards, and infant words 
Praying for mercy, and then childish screams 
Of fear and pain. There were these the last 

night 
The white walls of my cottage stood ; they 

bound 
And flung me down beside the oak to watch 
How the red fire gather'd, like that of hell. 
There sprang one to the lattice and leant fortn^ 
Gasping for the fresh air — my own fair girl — 
My only one ! The vision haunts me still ; 
The white arms raised to Heaven, and the 

long hair, 
Bright as the light beside it, stiff on the head. 
Upright from terror. In th' accursed glare 
We knew each other ; and I heard a cry 
Half tenderness, half agony — a crush — ■ 
The roof fell in — I saw my child no more ! 
A cloud closed round me, a deep thunder- 
cloud, 

309 



landon's poems. 

Half darkness and half fire. At length sense 

came 
With a remembering, like that which a dream 
Leaves, of vague horrors ; but the heavy chain, 
The loathsome straw which was mine only bed, 
The sickly light through the dim bars. 
The silence, were realities ; and then 
I lay on the cold stones and wept aloud, 
And pray'd the fever to return again. 
And bring death with it. Yet I did escape — 
Again I drank the fresh blue air of heaven, 
And felt the sunshine laugh upon my brow ; 
I thought then I would seek my desolate 

home. 
And die where it had been. I reach'd the 

place — 
The ground was bare and scorch'd, and in 

the midst 
Was a black heap of ashes. Franticly 
I groped amid them, ever and anon 
Meeting some human fragment, skulls and 

bones, 
Shapeless and cinders, till I drew a curl, 
A long and beautiful curl of sunny hair. 
Stainless and golden, as but then just sever'd, 
A love-gift from the head ; — I knew the hair : 
It was my daughter's ! There I stood, and 

howl'd 
Curses upon that night. There came a voice. 
There came a gentle step ; — even on that heap 
Of blood and ashes did I kneel, and pour 
To the great God my gratitude ! That curl 
Was wet with tears of happiness ; that stop. 
That voice, were sweet familiar ones — one 

child— 
My eldest son, was sent me from the grave ! 
That night he had escaped. . . . 
310 



AEION. 

We left the desolate valley, and we went 
Together to the mountains and the woods, 
And there inhabited in love and peace, 
Till a strong spirit came upon men's hearts. 
And roused them to avenge their many 

wrongs. 
Yet stood they not in battle, and the arm 
Of the oppressor was at first too mighty ; 
Albeit I have lived to see their bonds 
Rent like burnt flax, yet much of blood was 

spilt 
Or ever the deliverance was accomplish'd. 
We fled in the dark night. At length the 

moon 
Rose on the midnight — when I saw the face 
Of my last child was ghastly white, and set 
In the death-agony, and from his side 
The li^'blood came like tears; and then I 

pray'd 
That he would rest, and let me stanch the 

wound. 
He motion'd me to fly, and then lay down 
Upon the rock and died ! This is his grave, 
His home and mine. Ask ye now why I 

dwell 
Upon the rock, and loathe the vale beneath 1 



ARION. 

A TALE. 

The winds are high, the clouds are dark, 
But stay not thou for storm, my bark ; 
What is the song of love to me. 
Unheard, my sweet Holm, by thee ? 
311 



landon's poems. 

Fair lips miay smile, and eyes may shine, 
But lip nor eye will be like thine ; 
And every blush that mantles here, 
But images one more bright and dear. 
My spirit of song is languid and dead, 
If not at thine altar of beauty fed. 
Again I must listen thy gentle tone, 
And make its echo of music my own ; 
Again I must look on thy smile divine, 
Again I must see the red flowers twine 
Around my harp, enwreath'd by thine hand, 
And waken its chords at my love's command. 
I have dwelt in a distant but lovely place. 
And worshipp'd many a radiant face, 
And sipp'd the flowers from the purple wine, 
But they were not so sweet as one kiss of 

thine. 
I have wander'd o'er land, I have wander'd 

o'er sea, 
But my heart has ne'er wander'd, Eela:, from 

thee. 
And Greece, my own, my glorious land, 
I will take no laurel but from tliy hand. 
What is the light of a poet's name. 
If it is not his country that hallows his fame 1 
Where may he look for guerdon so fair. 
As the honor and praise that awaits him there 1 
His name will be lost, and his grave forgot. 
If the tears of his country preserve them not! . . 
. . . He laid him on the deck to sleep. 
And pleasant was his rest, and deep ; 
He heard familiar voices speak. 
He felt his love's breath on his cheek ; 
He look'd upon his own blue skies, 
He saw his native temples rise : 
Even in dreams he wept to see 
What he had loved so tenderly. 
312 



AEION. 

The sailors look'd within the hold, 

And envied him his shining gold ; 

They wak'd him, bade him mark the wave, 

And said 'twas for Arion's grave ! 

He watch'd each dark face that appear'd. 

And saw each heart with gold was sear'd ; 

Then roused his spirit's energy 

And stood prepared in pride to die ! 

He cast one look upon his lyre — 

He felt his heart and hand on fire. 

And pray'd the slaves to let him pour 

His spirit in its song once more. 

He sung — the notes at first were low. 

Like the whispers of love, or the breathings of 

woe: 
The waters were hush'd, and the winds were 

stay'd, 
As he sang farewell to his Lesbian maid ! 
Even his murderers paused and wept, 
But look'd on the gold and their purpose kept. 
More proudly he swept the chords along, 
'Twas the stirring burst of a battle song — 
And with the last close of his martial strain 
He plunged with his lyre in the deep .blue 

main ! 
•. . . The tempest has burst from its blacken'd 

dwelling, 
The lightning is flashing, the waters are 

swelling 
In mountains, crested with foam and with 

froth. 
And the wind has rush'd like a giant forth ; 
The deck is all spray, the mast is shatter'd, 
The sails, like the leaves in the autumn, are 

scatter'd. 
The mariners pale with fear, for a grave 
Is in the dark bosom of every wave. 
27 313 



LANBON S POEMS, 

The billows rnsh'd— one fearful cry 

Is heard of haman agony I 

Another swell— no trace is seen 

Of what upon its breast has been ! . » 

But who is he, who o'er the sea 

Rides like a god, triumphantly 

Upon a dolphin 1 All is calm 

Around, the air he breathes is balm. 

And quiet as beneath the sky 

Of his own flowery Arcady ; 

And all grows peaceful as he rides 

His dolphin through' the glassy tides ; 

And ever as he music drew 

From his sweet harp, a brightening hue. 

Like rainbow tints, a gentle bound, 

Told how the creature loved the sound. 

AvLioSf some god has watch'd over thee, 

And saved thee alike from man and the sea 

The night came on, a summer night. 

With snowy cloBds and soft starlight ; 

And glancing meteors, like the flash 

Sent from a Greek girl's dark eyelash 

Q^r a sky as blue as her own blue eyes. 

Borne by winds as perfumed and light as hej 

sighs* 
The zenith rooon was shedding her light 
In the silence and glory of deep midnight. 
When the voice of singing was heard frons 

afar, 
Like the music that echoes a falling star } 
And presently came gliding by 
The Spirit of the m«lody ; 
A radiant shape, her long gold hair 
Flew like a banner on the air, 
Save one or two bright curls that fell 
Like gems upon a neck whose swell 
314 



Rose like the dove's, when its mate's caress 

Is smoothing; the soft plumes in tenderness ; 

And one arm, white as the sea-spray, 

Amid the chords of music lay. 

She swept the strings, and lix'd th« while 

Her dark eye's wild luxuriant smile 

Upon Arion ; and her lip. 

Like the first spring-rose that the bee can sip 

Curl'd half in the pride of its loveliness, 

And half with a love-sigh's voluptuousness 

There is a voice of music swells 

In the ocean's coral groves; 
Sweet is the harp in the pearly cells. 

Where the step of the sea-maid roves. 
The angry storm when it rolls above, 

At war with the foaming wave, 
Is soft and low as the voice of love. 

Ere it reach her sparry cave. 
When the sua seeks his glorious rest. 

And his beams o'er ocean fall. 
The gold and the crimson, spread on the west, 

Brighten her crystal hall. 
The sands of amber breathe perfume, 

Gemm'd with pearls like tears of snow 
Around in wreaths the white sea-flowers bloom, 

The waves in music flow. 
Child of the lyre, is not this a spot 

That would suit the minstrel well 1 
Then haste thee and share the sea-maid's lot. 

Her love and her spar-built cell. 

Ahiox scarcely heard the strain. 
Her song was lost, her smile was vain, \ 

He had a charm, all charms above, 
To guard his heart— the charm of love- 
S15 



LANDON S POEMS. 

He floated on. The morning came, 

With lip of dew and cheek of flame ; 

He look'd upon his native shore, 

His voyage, his perilous voyage is o'er. 

There stood a temple by the sea, 

Raised to its queen, Amphitkite : 

AmON enter'd, and kneeling there 

He saw a girl, like spring-day fair. 

Feeding with incense the sacred flame. 

And he heard her hymn, and it breathed his 

name. 
O Love ! a whole life is not worth this bliss — 
Egx^ has met her Akiost's kiss ! — 
They raised an altar upon the sea-shore, 
And every spring they cover'd it o'er 
With fruits of the wood and flowers of the 

field, 
And the richest perfumes that the East could 

yield : 
And as the waves roU'd, they knelt by the 

side, 
And pour'd their hymn to the Queen of the 

Tide. 



CRESCENTIUS. 

I look'd upon his brow — no sign 

Of guilt or fear was there ; 
He stood as proud by that death-shrine 

As even o'er Despair 
He had a power ; in his eye 
There was a quenchless energy, 

A spirit that could dare 
316 



CRESCENTIUS. 

The deadliest form that death could take. 
And dare it for the daring's sake. 

He stood, the fetters on his hand — 

He raised them haughtily ; 
And had that grasp been on the brand, 

It could not wave on high 
With freer pride than it waved now. 
Around he look'd with changeless brow 

On many a torture nigh : 
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, 

And worst of all his own red steel. 

I saw him once before ; he rode 

Upon a coal-black steed, 
And tens of thousands throng'd the road 

And bade their warrior speed. 
His helm, his breastplate, were of gold. 
And graved with many a dent that told 

Of many a soldier's deed ; 
The sun shone on his sparkling mail, 
And danced his snow-plume on the gale. 

But now he stood, chain'd and alone, 

The headsman by his side, 
The plume, the helm, the charger, gone. 

The sword which had defied 
The mightiest, lay broken near ; 
And yet no sign or sound of fear 

Came from that lip of pride ; 
And never king or conqueror's brow 
Wore higher look than his did now. 

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke 

With an uncover'd eye, 
A wild shout from the numbers broke 

Who throng'd to see him die. 
27* 317 



landon's poems. 

It Tvas a people's loud acclaim, 
The voice of anger and of shame 

A nation's funeral cry : 
Rome's wail above her only son. 
Her patriot and her latest one. 

/ 



THE CRUSADER. 

He is come home from the land of the 

sword and shrine, 
From the sainted battles of Palestine ; 
The snow plumes wave o'er his victor crest, 
Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast ; 
His courser is black as black can be. 
Save the brow star white as the foam of the 

sea, 
And he wears a scarf of broidery rare, 
The last love-gift of his lady fair : 
It bore for device a cross and a dove. 
And the words, " I am vow'd to my God and 

my love !" 
He comes not back the same that he went, 
For his sword has been tried, and his strength 

has been spent ; 
His golden hair has a deeper brown, 
And his brow has caught a darker frown. 
And its lip hath lost its boyish red. 
And the shade of the south o'er his cheek is 

spread ; 
But stately his step, and his bearing high, 
And wild the light of his fiery eye ; 
318 



THE CRUSADER. 

And proud in the lists were the maiden bright 
Who might claim the Knight of the Cross for 

her knight. 
But he rides for the home he has pined to see 
In the court, in the camp, in captivity. 

He reach'd the castle — the gate was thrown 
Open and wide, but he stood there alone ; 
He enter'd the door — his own step was all 
That echo'd within the deserted hall ; 
He stood on the roof of the ancient tower, 
And for banner there waved one pale wall- 
flower : 
And for sound of the trumpet and sound of 

the horn, 
Came the scream of the owl on the night- 
wind borne ; 
And the turrets were falling, the vassals were 

flown. 
And the bat ruled the halls he had thouglit 

his own. 
His heart throbb'd high — O never again 
Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his 

spirit's pain ! 
He never might think on his boyish years 
Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm 

tears 
Which Hope and Memory shed when they 

meet. 
The grave of his kindred was at his feet ; 
He stood alone, the last of his race, 
With the coFd wide world for his dwelling- 
place. 
The home of his fathers gone to decay — 
All but their memory was pass'd away ; 
No one to welcome, no one to share, 
The laurel he no more was proud to wear : 
319 



landon's poems. 

He came in the pride of his vai success. 
But to weep over every desolateness. 
They pointed him to a barren plain, 
Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen 

were slain ; 
They showed him the lowly grave, where 

slept ^ 

The maiden whose scarf he so truly had kept ; 
But they could not show him one living thing 
To which his wither'd heart could cling. . . . 

Amid the warriors of Palestine 
Is one, the first in the battle-line ; 
It is not for glory he seeks the field, 
For a blasted tree is upon his shield, 
And the motto he bears is, " I fight for a 

grave :" 
He found it — that warrior has died with the 

brave ! 



THE WARRIOR. 

A SKETCH. 

The warrior went forth in the morning 

light- 
Waved like a meteor his plume of white, 
Scarce might his gauntleted hand restrain 
The steed that snorted beneath the rein : 
Yet curb'd he its pride, for upon him there 
Gazed the dark eye of his ladye fair. 
She stood on the tower to watch him ride — 
The maiden whose hand on his bosom had 

tied 

320 



THE WARRIOE. 

The scarf she had work'd : — she saw him de- 
part 
With a tearless eye, though a beating heart ; 
But when the knight of her love was gone, 
She went to her bower to weep alone. 
The warrior past — but first he took 
At the castle-wall one parting look, 
And thought of the evening when he should 

bring 
His lady his battle offering ; 
Then like a thought he dashed o'er the plain, 
And with banner and brand came his vassal 

train. 
It was a thrilling sound to hear 
The bugle's welcome of warlike cheer ; 
It was a thrilling sight to see 
The ranks of that gallant company ; 
Many were there, stately and tall, 
But Edith's knight was the first of all. 
The day is past, and the moonbeams weep 
O'er the many that rest in their last cold sleep ; 
Near to the gash'd and nerveless hand 
Is the pointless spear and the broken brand ; 
The archer lies like an arrow spent. 
His shafts all loose and his bow unbent ; 
Many a white plume torn and red. 
Bright curls rent from the graceful head, 
Helmet and breastplate scatter'd around. 
Lie a fearful show on the well-fought ground : 
While the crow and the raven flock over head 
To feed on the hearts of the helpless dead, 
Save when scared by the glaring eye 
Of some wretch in his last death agony. 

Lighted up is that castle-wall. 
And twenty harpers wait in the hall ; 
321 



liANDON'S POEMS 

On the board is miintling the purple wine, 
And wreaths of white flowers the maidens 

twine ; 
For distant and faint is heard the swell 
Of bugles and voices from yonder dell. 
The victors are coming ; and by the tower 
Had Edith watch'd for the midnight hour. 

O, that lorje sickness of the heart, 
Which bids the weary moments depart, 
Yet dreads their departing ; the cross she held 

fast, 
And kiss'd off the tears — they are come at 

last! 
But has not the bugle a plaining wail, 
As the notes of its sadness come on the gale ; 
Why comes there no shout of the victor's 

pride. 
As red from the battle they homeward ride ? 
Yet high o'er their ranks is their white banner 

borne, 
While beneath droops the foeman's, blood- 
stain 'd and torn. 
Said not that young warrior thus it should be^ 
When he talk'd to his Edith of victory 1 
Yet, maiden, weep o'er thy loneliness. 
Is not yon dark horse riderless 5 
She flew to the gate — she stood there alone — 
Where was he who to meet her had flown ? 
The dirge grew plain as the troop came near. 
They bear the young chieftain cold on his bier ! 
322 



APOLOGUE: 



*^HE THOUGHT StTGCfESTED BT A SPANISS 
SAYING *' AlB — 'FIHE— WATER— SHAME." 



Seek for me in the Arab maid's botver, 
Where the foantain plays over the jasmine 

jflower. 
ISeek for me in the light cascade 
The minstrel lists in the greenwood shade j 
Seek me at morn 'mid the violet's dyes : 
&eek me where rainbows paint April skies ! 
In the blue rush of rivers, the depths of th© 

sea, 
If vfe should sever, there seek for me. 



Seek for me where the war-shots meet. 
Where the soldier's cloak is his winding" 

sheet ; 
Seek for me where the fava wave 
Bursts from Etna's secret cave ; 
Seek for me where Christmas mirth 
Brightens the circle of love round your hearth 5 
Where meteor-flames glance, where the stars 

are bright ; ^ 

Where the beacon flashes at the dead mid- 
night ; 
Where the lightning scathes the tall oak tree^ 
Jf we shoald sever, there seek far me 



Seek for me where the Spanish maid 
Hearkens at eve to the serenade ; 

323 



liANDON'S POEMS. 

Seek for me where the clouds are dark, 
Where the billows foam round the sinking 

bark; 
Where the aspen leaf floats on the summer's 

gale, 
Where the rose bends low at the nightingale's 

tale ; 
Where the wind-harp wakens iu melody, 
If we should sever, there seek for me. 



Seek not me, if we should sever : 
Parted once, we part forever. 



A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 

Sketches indeed, from that most passionate page, 

A Woman's heart, of feelings, thoughts, that make 

The atmosphere in which her spirit moves ; 

But, like all other earthly elements, 

O'ercast with clouds, now dark, now touch'd with 

light. 
With rainbows, sunshine, showers, moonlight, stars, 
Chasing each other's change. I fain would trace 
Its brightness and its blackness ; and these lines 
Are consecrate to annals such as those, 
That count the pulses of the beating heart. / 

'Tis strange how much is mark'd on me» 
mory. 
In which we may have interests, but no part ; 
How circumstances will brin^ together links 
In destinies the most dissimilar. 
This face, whose rudely-pencill'd sketch you 

hjld. 
Recalls to me a host of pleasant thoughts, 
324 



A HISTOET OF THE LYRE. 

And some more serious. — This is EulaliEj 
Once the light of Rome for that fine skill 
With which she woke the lute when answer- 
ing 
With its sweet echoes and melodious words. 
She had the rich perfection of that gift, 
Her Italy's own ready song, which seems 
The poetry caught from a thousand ilowers ; 
The diamond sunshine, and the lulling air, 
So pure, yet full of perfume ; fountains tuned 
Like natural lutes, from whispering green 

leaves ; 
The low peculiar murmur of the pines : 
From pictured saints that look their native 

heaven — 
Statues whose grace is a familiar thing ; 
The ruin'd shrine of mournful loveliness ; 
The stately church, awfully beautiful ; 
The climate, and their language, whose least 

word 
Is melody — these overfill the heart. 
Till, fountainlike, the tips o'erflow with* song, 
And music is to them an element. 
— I saw ExjLALiE : all was in the scene 
Graceful association, slight surprise. 
That are so much in youth. It was in June, 
Night, but such night a,s only is not day — 
For moonlight, even when most clear, is sad : 
We cannot but contrast its still repose 
With the unceasing turmoil in ourselves. 
— We stood beside a cypress, whose green spire 
Rose like a funeral column o'er the dead. 
Near was a fallen palace — stain'd and gray, 
The marble show'd amid the tender leaves 
Of ivy but just shooting ; yet there stood 
Pillars unbroken, two or three vast halls, 
Entire enough to cast a deep black shade ; 
28 325 



LANDON'S POEMS* 

And a few statues, beautiful but cold-^ 
White shadows, pale and motionless, that 

seem 
To mock the change in which they had no 

part — 
Fit images of the dead. Pensive enough, 
Whatever aspect desolation wears ; 
But this, the wrecking work of yesterday, 
Hath somewhat still more touching ; here we 

trace 
The waste of man too much. When years 

have past 
Over the fallen arch, the ruin'd hall, 
It seems but course of time, the one great 

doom. 
Whose influence is alike upon us all ; 
The gray tints soften, and the ivy wreath 
And wild flowers breathe life's freshness rounds 

but here 
We stand before decay ; scarce have the walls 
Lost music left by human step and voice ; 
The lonely hearth, the household desolate, 
Some noble race gone to the dust in blood ; 
Man shames of his own deeds, and there we 

gaze 
Watching the progress not of time, but death. 
-^-Low music floated on the midnight wind, 
A mournful murmur, such as opes the heart 
With memory's key, recalling other times, 
And gone-by hopes and feelings, till they have 
An echo sorrowful, but very sweet; 
" Hush !" said my comrade — " it is Eulalik ; 
Now you may gaze upon the loneliness 
Which is her inspiration." Soft we pass'd 
Behind a fragment of the shadowy wall. 
-^I never saw more perfect loveliness. 
It ask'd, it had no aid from dress ; her robe 
326 



A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 

Was white, and simply gather'd in such folds 
As suit a statue :' neck and arms were bare ; 
The black hair was unbound, and like a vail 
Hung even to her feet ; she held a lute, 
And, as she paced the ancient gallery, waked 
A few wild chords, and murmur'd low sweet 

words, , 
But scarcely audible, as if she thought 
Rather than spoke ; — the night, the solitude, 
Fill'd the young Pythoness with poetry. 
— Her eyes were like the moonlight, clear and 

soft. 
That shadowy brightness which is born of 

tears. 
And raised toward the sky, as if they sought 
Companionship with their own heaven ; her 

cheek — 
Emotion made it colorless, that pure 
And delicate white which speaks so much of 

thought. 
Yet flushes in a moment into rose ; 
And tears like pearls lay on it, those which 

come 
When the heart wants a language ; but she 

pass'd. 
And left the place to me a haunted shrine, 
Hallow'd by genius in its holiest mood 
— At Count Zabin's palazzo the next night 
We were to meet, and expectation wore 
Itself with fancies — all of them were vain. 
I could not image aught so wholly changed. 
Her robe was Indian red, and work'd with 

gold, 
And gold the queen-like girdle round her 

waist. 
Her hair was gather'd up in grape-like curls ; 
327 



landon's poems. 

An emerald wreath, shaped into vine leaves, 

made 
Its graceful coronal. Leant on a couch 
The centre of a group, whose converse light 
Made a fit element, in which her wit 
Flash'd like the lightning : — on her cheek the 

rose 
Burnt like a festal lamp; the sunniest smiles 
Wander'd upon her face. I only knew 
EuLALiE by her touching voice again. 
— They had been praying her to wake the 

lute : * 

She would not, wayward in her mood that 

pight ; 
When some one bade her mark a little sketch 
I brought from England of my father's hall ; 
Himself was outlined leaning by an oak, 
A grayhound at his feet. " And is this dog 
Your father's sole companion'!" — with these 

words 
She touch'd the strings: — that melancholy 

song, 
I never may forget its sweet reproach. 
— She ask'd me how I had the heart to leave 
The old man in his age ; she told how lorn 
Is solitude ; she spoke of the young heart 
Left in its loneliness, where it had known 
No kindness but from strangers, forced to be 
Wayfarer in this bleak and bitter world, 
And looking to the grave as to a home. 
— The numbers died in tear."?, but no one 

sought 
To stay her as she pass'd with vailed face 
From the hush'd hall. One gently whisper'd 

me, 
EuLAXiE is an orphan J • • ♦ 
Yet still our meetings were 'mid festival, 
328 



A HISTORY OP THE LYRE. 

Night after night It was both sad and strange, 

To see that fine mind waste itself away, 

Too like some noble stream, which, unconfined, 

Makes fertile its rich banks, and glads the face 

Of nature round ; but not so when its wave 

Is lost in artificial waterfalls, 

And sparkling eddies ; or coop'd up to mak 

The useless fountain of a palace hall. 

— One day I spoke of this ; her eager soul 

Was in its most unearthly element. 

We had been speaking of the immortal dead. 

The light flash'd in her eyes. " 'Tis this 

which makes 
The best assurance of our promised heaven ; 
This triumph intellect has over death — 
Our words yet live on other's lips; out 

thoughts 
Actuate others. Can that man be dead 
Whose spiritual influence is upon his kind 1 
He lives in glory ; and such speaking dust 
Has more of life than half its breathing 

moulds. 
Welcome a grave with memories such as 

these, 
Making the sunshine of our moral world !" 
" This proud reward you see, and yet can 

leave ! 
Your songs sink on the ear, and there they 

die, 
A flower's sweetness, but a flower's life. 
An evening's homage is your only fame ; 
'Tis vanity, Exjlalie." — Mournfully 
She shook the raven tresses from her brow, 
As if she felt their darkness omen-like. 
" Speak not of this to me, nor bid me think ; 
It is such pain to dwell upon myself. 
And know how different I am from all 
28* 329 



landon's poems. 

I once dream'd I could be. Fame ! stirring 

fame, 
I work no longer miracles for thee. 
I am as one who sought at early dawn 
To climb with fiery speed some lofty hill : 
His feet are strong in eagerness and youth ; 
His limbs are braced by the fresh morning air. 
And all seems possible : — this cannot last. 
The way grows steeper, obstacles arise, 
And unkind thwartings from companions near. 
The height is truer measured, having traced 
Part of its heavy length ; his sweet hopes 

droop 
Like prison'd birds that know their cage has 

bars ; 
The body wearies, and the mind is worn — 
That worst of lassitude : — hot noon comes on ; 
There is no freshness in the sultry air. 
There is no rest upon the toilsome road ; 
There is the summit, which he may not reach. 
And round him are a thousand obstacles. 
" I am a woman : — tell me not of fame 
The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path, 
And fling back arrows, where the dove would 

die. 
Look on those flowers near yon accacia tree— 
The lily of the valley — mark how pure 
The snowy blossoms — and how soft a breath 
Is almost hidden by the large dark leaves. 
Not only have those delicate flowers a gift 
Of sweetness and of beauty, but the root— 
A healing power dwells there ; fragrant and 

fair, 
But dweling still in some beloved shade. 
Is not this woman's emblem 1 — she whose 

smile 
Should only make the loveliness of home — 
330 



A HISTORY OP THE LTEE. 

Who seeks support and shelter from man's 

heart, 
And pays it with affection quiet, deep — 
And in his sickness — sorrow — with an aid 
He did not deem in aught so fragile dwelt. 
Alas ! this has not been my destiny ! 
Again I'll borrow Summer's eloquence. 
Yon Eastern tulip — that is emblem mine ; 
Ay, it has radiant color — every leaf 
Is as a gem from its own country's mines, 
'Tis redolent with sunshine ; but with noon 
It has begun to wither : — look within. 
It has a wasted bloom, a burning heart ; 
It has dwelt too much in the open day. 
And so have I : and both must droop and die ! 
I did not choose my gift ; — too soon my heart, 
Watchlike, had pointed to a later hour 
Than' time had reach'd : and as my years 

pass'd on, 
Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts, 
And thoughts found words, the passionate 

words of song. 
And all to me was poetry. The face. 
Whose radiance glided past me in the dance, 
Awoke a thousand fantasies to make 
Some history of her passing smile or sigh. 
The flowers were full of song : — upon the rose 
I read the crimson annals of true love ; 
The violet flung me back on old romance ; 
All was association with some link 
Whose fine electric throb was in the mind. 
I paid my price for this — 'twas happiness. 
My wings have melted in their eager flight, 
And gleams of heaven have only made me 

feel 
Its distance from our earth more forcibly. 
331 



landon's poems. 

My feelings grow less fresh, my thoughts less 

kind : 
My youth has been too lonely, too much left 
To struggle for itself; and this world is 
A northern clime, where every thing is chill'd. 
I speak of my own feelings — I can judge 
Of others but by outward show, and that 
Is falser than the actor's studied part.,, 
We dress our words and looks in borrow'd 

robes : ■ ,, , ■ *;;',, ,. 

The mind is as the face — for who goes forth 
Tn public walks without a vail at least ? 
'Tis this constraint makes half life's misery. 
'Tis a false rule : we do too much regard 
Other's opinions, but neglect their feelhigs ; 
Thrice happy if such order were reversed. 

why do we make sorrow for ourselves. 
And, not content with the great wretchedness 
Which is our native heritage — those ills 

We have no mastery over — sickness, toil, 
Death, and the natural grief which comrades 

death — 
Are not all these enough, that we must add 
Mutual and moral torment, and inflict 
Ingenious tortures we must first contrive 1 

1 am distrustful — I have been deceived 
And disappointed — I have hoped in vain- 
I am vain— praise is opium, and the lip 
Cannot resist the fascinating draught, 
Though knowing its excitement is a fraud— 
—Delirious — a mockery of fame, 

I may not image the deep solitude 
In which my spirit dwells. My days are past 
Among the cold, the careless, and the false. 
What part have I in them, or they in me 1 
Yet I would be beloved ; I would be kind ; 
I would share others' sorrows, others' joys ; 
332 



A HISTOEY OF THE LTEE. 

I would fence in a happiness with friends. 
I cannot do this : — is the fault mine own ] 
Can I love those who but repay my love 
"W ith half caprice, half flattery 1 or trust, 
When I have full internal consciousness 
They are deceiving me 1 I may be kind', 
And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still ; 
For gratitude is not companionship. — 
We have proud words that speak of intellect ; 
We talk of mind that magnifies the world, 
And makes it glorious :. much of this is true. 
All time attests the miracles of man : 
The very elements, whose nature seems 
To mock dominion, yet have worn his yoke. 
His way has been upon the pathless sea ; 
The earth's dark bosom search'd ; bodiless air 
Works as his servant ; and from his own mind 
What rich stores he has won: the sage, the 

bard. 
The painter, these have made their nature 

proud ; 
And yet how life goes on, its great outline 
How noble and ennobling ! — but within 
How mean, how poor, how pitiful, how mix'd 
With base alloy ; how Disappointment tracks 
The steps of Hope ; how Envy dogs success ; 
How every victor's crown is lined with thorns. 
And worn 'mid scoffs ! Trace the young 

poet's fate ; 
Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams, 
His heart upon his lips, he seeks the world. 
To find him fame and fortune, as if life 
Were like a fairy tale. His song has led 
The way before him ; flatteries fill his ear, 
His presence courted, a^id his words are 

caught ; 
And he seems happy in so many friends. 
. 333 



landon's poems. 

What marvel if he somewnat overrates 

His talents and his state 1 These scenes soon 

change. 
The vain, who sought to mix their name with 

his; 
The curious, who but hve for some new sight ; 
The idle — all these have been gratified, 
And now neglect stings even more than scorn. 
Envy has spoken, felt more bitterly. 
For that it was not dream'd of; worldliness 
Has crept upon his spirit unaware ; 
Vanity craves for its accustomed food ; 
He has turn'd sceptic to the truth which made 
His feelings poetry ; and discontent 
Hangs heavDy on the lute, which wakes no 

more 
Its early music : — social life is fill'd 
With doubts and vain aspirings ; solitude, 
When the imagination is dethroned, 
Is turn'd to weariness. What can he do 
But hang his lute on some lone tree, and die 1 
" Methinks we must have known some for- 
mer state 
More glorious thari our present, and the heart 
Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left 
By past magnificence ; and hence we pine 
With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes 
With bitter tears for their own vanity. 
Remembrance makes the poet : 'tis the past 
Lingering within him, with a keener sense 
Than is upon the thoughts of common men 
Of what has been, that fills the actual world 
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes, 
That were and are not ; and the fairer they. 
The more their contrast with existing things, 
The more his power, the greater is his grief. 
\ -Are we then fallen from some noble star, 
'^ 334 



A HISTORY 0? TSi! L-rEIl. 

Whose consciousness is as an unknown cursSj 
And we feel capable of happiness 
Only to know it is not of our sphere ? 
" I have sung passionate songs of beating 

hearts ; 
Perhaps it had been better had they drawn 
Their inspiration from an inward source. 
Had I known even an unhappy love, 
It would have flung an interest found life 
Mine never knew. This is an empty wish j 
Our feelings are not fires to light at will 
Our nature's fine and subtle mysteries ; 
We may control them, but may not create, 
And love less than its fellows. I have fed 
Perhaps too much upon the lotos fruits 
Imagination yields— fruits which unfit 
The palate for the more substantial food 
Of our own land— ^reality. I made 
My heart too like a temple for a home ; 
My thoughts were birds of paradise, that 

breathed 
The airs of heaven, btyt died on touching earth. 
^=^The knight whose deeds were stainless aa 

his cre&t. 
Who made my name his watchword in the 

field ; 
The poet with immortal words, whose heart 
1 shared with beauty ; or the patriot. 
Whose eloquence was power, who made my 

smile 
His recompense amid the toil Which shaped 
A nation's destiny : these, such as these. 
The glorified' — the passionate— the brave- 
In these I might have found the head and 

heart 
I could have worshipp'd. Where are such ag 

thfese 1 

335 



landon''s poems. 

( ■=-]Vot mid gay cavaliers, who make the dance 
i'leasant with graceful flatteries; whose words 
A passing mom'ent might light up my cheek, 
But haunted not my solitude. The fault 
Has been my own ; perhaps I ask'd too much, 

f Yet let me say what firmly I believe 

! Ijove can be — ay, and is. I hold that Love 
Which chooseth, from a thousand, only one 
To be the object of that tenderness 
Natural to every heart ; which can resign 

. Its own best happiness for one dear sake ; 

Ij Can bear with absence ; hath ho part in hope 

' For Hope is somewhat selfish — ^Love is not^- 
And doth prefer another to itself, 
Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love, 

I Can melt away the dross of worldliness ; 
' Can elevate, refine, and make the heart 
Of that pure gold which is the fitting shrine 
For fire, as sacred as e'er came from Heaven ? 
No more of this : — 'One word may read my 

heart. 
And that one word is utter weariness ! 
Yet sometimes I look round with vain regret^ 
And think I will restring my lute, and nerve 
My woman's hand for nobler enterprise ; 
But the day never comes. Alas ! we make 
A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, 
But sleep ourselves at the foot : our high re»- 

solves 
Look down upon our slumbering acts." 

I soon left Italy ; it is well worth 
A year of wandering, were it but to feel 
How much our England does outweigh the 

world. 
A clear cold April morning was it, when I 

first 
Rode up the avenue of ancient oaks, 
336 



A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 

A hundred years upon each stately head. 
The park was bright with sunshine, and the 

deer 
Went bounding by; freshness was on the 

wind, 
Till every nerve was braced ; and once the air 
Came with Arabian sweetness on its wing — 
It was the earliest growth of violets. 
A fairy foot had left its trace beside — 
Ah, EariLT had nursed my favorite flowers. 
Nearer I came, I heard familiar sounds — 
They are the heart's best music ; saw: the 

blaze 
Through the wide windows of the dear old 

hall; 
One moment more, my eager footstep stood 
Within my father's home, beside his hearth. 
— Three times those early violets had fill'd 
Their turns with April dew, when the 

changed cheek 
Of Emilt wore signs of young decay. 
The rose was too inconstant, and the light 
Too clear in those blue eyes; but southern 

skies 
Might nurse a flower too delicate to bear 
The winds of March, unless in Italy. 
I need not tell thee how the soothing air 
Brought tranquil bloom that fed not on itself, 
To Emily's sweet face : but soon again 
We talk'd of winter by our own wood fire. 
With cheerful words that had no tears to hide. 
— We passed through Rome on our return, 

and there 
Sought out EuLALiE. Graceful as her wont 
Her welcome to my bride ; but 0, so changed ! 
Her cheek was colorless as snow ; she wore 
The beauty of a statue, or a spirit 
29 33? 



landon's fo-bms. 

With large and radiant eyes: — ^her thrilling 

voice 
Had lost its power, but still its sweetness kept. 
One night, while seated in her favorite hali^ 
The silken curtains all flung back for air,- 
She mark'd my Emilt, whose idle gaze 
Was fix'd on that fair garden. "Will you 

come 
And wander in the moonlight 1 — our soft dew 
Will wash no cdor from thine island cheek.^"^ 
She led the way by many a bed, whose hues 
Vied with the rainbow — through sweet-scented 

groves. 
Golden wrlh oranges : at length the patfr 
Grew shadowy with darker, older trees. 
And led us to a little lonely spot. 
There were no blossoming, shrubs, but sweep- 
ing pines 
Guarded the solitude ; and laurel boughs 
Made fitting mirrors for the lovely moon. 
With their bright shining leaves; the ivy lay 
And trail'd upon the ground ; and in the midst 
A large old cypress stood, beneath whose shade 
There was a sculptured form j the feet were? 

placed 
Upon a finely-carved rose-wreath i the arms 
Were raised to Heaven, as if to clasp the stars, 
EuLALiE leant beside ; 'twas hard to say 
Which was the actual marble: when she 

spoke, 
You started, scarce it seem'd a human sound ; 
But the eyes' lustre tcrid life linger'd still ; 
And now the moonlight seem'd to fill their 

depths. 
" You see," she said, « my cemetery here : — 
Here, only here, shall be my quiet grave. 
Yon statue is my emblem : see, its grasp 
338 



M". 



THE NAMELESS GRAVE. 

Is raised to Heaven, forgetful that the while 
Its step has crush'd the fairest of earth's 
flowers 

With its neglect." 

Her prophecy was sooth ; 
No chaixge of leaf had that green valley known, 
When EuLALiE lay there in her last sleep ! 

Peace to the weary and the beating heart 
That fed upon itself. 



THE NAMELESS GRAVE. 

A NAMEiESs grave — there is no stone 

To sanctify the dead ; 
O'er it the willow droops alone, 

With only wild flowers spread. 

" O, there is nought to interest here. 

No record of a name ; 
A trumpet call upon the ear, 

High on the roll of fame. 

" I will not pause beside a tomb 
Where nothing calls to mind, 

Aught that can brighten mortal gloom. 
Or elevate mankind ; — 

" No glorious memory to eflfaoe. 

The stain of meaner clay ; 
No intellect whose heavenly trace 

Eedcem'd our earth : — away !" 
339 



liANDOK^S POEMS. 

Ah, these are thoughts that well may rise 

On youth's ambitious pride ; 
But I will sit and moralize 

This lowly stone beside. 

Here thousands might have slept, whose name 

Had been to thee a spell, 
To light thy flashing eyes with flame — 

To bid thy young heart swell. 

Here might have been a warrior's rest. 

Some chief who bravely bled ; 
With waving banner, Sculptured crest. 

And laurel on his head. 

That laurel must have had its blood. 
That blood have caused its tear , 

Look on the lovely solitude — 
What ! wish for warfere here 1 

A poet might have slept — what ! he 

Whose restless heart first wakes 
Its life-pulse into melody, 

Then o'er it pines and breaks I 

He who hath sung of passionate love. 

His life a feverish tale ; 
O, not the nightingale, the dove 

Would suit its quiet vale. 

See, I have named your favorite two — 

Each had been glad to crave 
Rest 'neath this turfs unbroken dew,, 

And such a nameless grave ! 

S40 



FANTASIES. 

INSGRIBSD TO T. CRUFTOK CROKEB, ESQ.. 
1. 

I'm weary, I'm weary — this cold world of 
ours ! 
I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers 
Farewell to the festal, the hall of the dance 
Where each step is a study, a falsehood each 

glance ; 
Where the vain are displaying, the vapid are 

yawning ; 
Where the beauty of night, the glory of dawn- 
ing 
Are wasted, as fashion, that tyrant, at will 
Makes war on sweet Nature, and exiles her 
still. 

2. 

I'm- weary, I'm weary — I'm off with the 
wind ; 

Can I find a worse fate than the one left be- 
hind ] 

— ^Fair beings of moonlight, gay dwellers in 
air, 

show me your kingdom !^ — O let me dwell 

there ! 

1 see them, I see them ! — how sweet it must 

be 
To sleep in yon lily ! — is there room in't for 

mel 
I have flung my day fetters ; and now I but 

wear 
A shadowy seeming, a likeness of air. 

29* 341 



landon's poems. 



Go harness my chariot, the leaf of an oak, 
A butterfly stud, and a tendril my yoke. 
Go swing me a hammock, the poles migno- 
nette ; 
I'll rock with its scent in the gossamer net. 
Go fetch me a courser : yon reed is but slight, 
Yet far is the distance 'twill bear me to-night. 
I must have a throne — ay, yon mushroom 

may stay. 
It has sprung in a night, 'twill be gather'd 

next day : 
And fit is such throne for my brief fairy reign, 
For, alas ! I'm but dreaming, and dreams are 
but vain. 



A SUMMER EVENING'S TALE. 

Comb, let thy careless sail float on the wind ; 
Come, lean by me, and let thy little boat 
Follow like thee its will ; come, lean by me. 
Freighted with roses which the west has flung, 
Over its waters, on the vessel glides. 
Save where the shadowy boughs shut out the 

sky, 
And make a lovely darkness, while the wind 
Stirs the sad music of their plaining leaves. 
The sky grows paler, as it burns away 
Its crimson passion ; and the falling dew 
Seems like the tears that follow such an hour. 
I'll tell thee, love, a tale, — just such a tale 
As you once said my lips could breathe so 
well; 

342 



A SUMMER EVENING S TALE. 

Speaking as poetry should speak of love, 
And asking from the depths of mine own 

heart 
The truth that touches, and by what T feel 
For thee, believe what others' feelings are. 
There, leave the sail, and look with earnest 

eyes ; 
Seem not as if the worldly element 
In which thou movest were of thy nature part, 
But yield thee to the influence of those thoughts 
That haunt thy solitude : — ah, but for those 
I never could have loved thee ; I, who now 
Live only in my other life with thee ; 
Out on our beings' falsehood ! — studied, cold, 
Are we not like that actor of old time. 
Who wore his mask so long, his features took 
Its likeness ]^thus we feign we do not feel, 
Until our feelings are forgotten things. 
Their nature warp'd in one base selfishness ; 
And generous impulses, and lofty thoughts. 
Are counted folly, or are not beheved : 
And he who doubts or mocks at excellence 
(Good that refines our nature, and subdues,) 
Is rivetted to earth by sevenfold chains. 
O, never had the poet's lute a hope. 
An aim so glorious as it now may have, 
In this our sociqj state, where petty cares . 
And mercenary interests only look 
Upon the present's littleness, and shrink 
From the bold future, and the stately past, — 
Where the smooth surface of society 
Is polish'd by deceit, and the warm heart 
With all it kind affections' early flow. 
Flung back upon itself, forgets to beat, 
At least for others ; — 'tis the poet's gift 
To melt these frozen waters into tears. 
By sympathy with sorrows not our own, 
343 



landon's poems. 

By wakening memory with those mournfnl 

notes, 
Whose music is the thoughts of early years, 
When truth was on the lip, and feelings wore 
The sweetness and the freshness of their morn. 
Young poet, if thy dreams have not such hope 
To purify, refine, exalt, subdue, 
To touch the selfish and to shame the vain 
Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness, 
Or chords that rouse some aim of enterprise. 
Lofty and pure, and meant for general good ; 
If thou hast not some power that may direct 
The mind from the mean round of daily life. 
Waking affections that might else have slept, 
Or high resolves, the petrified before, 
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense, 
Of inward and external loveliness, 
Making imagination serve as guide 
To all of heaven that yet remains on earth — 
Thine is a useless lute : break it, and die. 
Love mine, I know my weakness, and I 
know 
How far I fall short of the glorious goal 
I purpose to myself; yet if one line 
Has stolen from the eye unconscious tears 
Recall'd one lover to fidelity 
Which' is the holiness of love, or bade 
One maiden sicken at cold vanity. 
When dreaming o'er affection's tenderness, 
The deep, the true, the honor'd of my song. 
If but one worldly soil has been effaced. 
That song has not been utterly in vain. 
All true deep feeling purifies the heart. 
Am I not better by my love for you 1 
At least, I am less selfish ; I would give 
My life to buy you happiness ;— Hush, hush ' 
I must not Jet you know how much I love, 
344 



A SUHMEE EVENING S TALE. 

So to my tale. — 'Twas on an eve like this, 
When purple shadows floated round, and light, 
Crimson and passionate, o'er the statues fell, 
Like life, for that fair gallery was fill'd 
With statues, each one an eternity 
Of thought and beauty ; there were lovely 

shapes. 
And noble ones ; some which the poet's song 
Had touch'd with its own immortality ; 
Others whose glory flung o'er history's page 
Imperishable lustre. There she stood. 
Forsaken Ahiadne ; round her brow 
Wreath'd the glad vine leaves ; but it wore 

a shade 
Of early wretchedness, that which once flung 
May never be eflTaced : and near her leant 
Endtmioit, and his spiritual beauty wore 
The likeness of divinity ; for love 
Doth elevate to itself, and she who watch'd 
Over his sleeping face, upon it left 
The brightness of herself. Around the walls 
Hung pictures, some which gave the summer 

all 
Summer can wish, a more eternal bloom ; 
And others in some young and lovely face 
Imbodied dreams into reality. 
There hung a portrait of St. Rosalie, 
She who renounced the world in youth, and 

made 
Her heart an altar but for heavenly hopes — 
Thrice bless'd in such sacrifice. Alas ! 
The weakness, yet the strength of earthly ties ! 
Who hath not in the weariness of life 
Wish'd for the wings of morning or the dove, 
To bear them heavenward, and have wish'd 



m vam 



For wishes are effectual but by will, 
345 



liANDON'S POEMB. 

And that too much is impotent and void 
In frail humanity ; and time steals by 
Sinful and wavering, and unredeem'd. 

Bent by a casement, whence her eye could 

dwell, 
Or on the countenance of that sweet saint, 
Or the fair valley, where the river wound 
Like to a fairy thing, now light, now shade. 
Which the eye watches in its wandering, 
A maiden pass'd each summer eve away. 
Life's closing color was upon her cheek. 
Crimson as that which marks the closing day : 
And her large eyes, the radiant and the clear, 
Wore all the ethereal beauty of that heaven 
Were she was hastening. Still her rosebud 

mouth 
Wore the voluptuous sweetness of a spring 
Haunted by fragrance and by melody, 
Her hair was gather'd in a silken net, 
As if its luxury of auburn curls 
Oppress'd the feverish temples all too much ; 
For you might see the azure pulses beat 
In the clear forehead painfully ; and oft 
Would her small hands be press'd upon her 

brow 
As if to still its throbbing. Days pass'd by, 
And thus beside that casement would she 

spend 
The summer evenings. Well she knew her 

doom, 
And sought to linger with such loveliness : 
Surely it sooth'd her passage to the grave. 

One gazed upon her, till his very life 
Was dedicate to that idolatry 
With which young Love makes offering of 

itself. 
In the vast world he only saw her face. <. 
346 



A SUMMER E7ENIHG S TALE, 

The morning blush was lighted up by hope— » 
The hope of meeting her ; the noontide hours 
Were counted'^for her sake ; in the soft wind, 
When it has pass'd o'er early flowers, he 

caught 
The odor of her sigh ; apon the rose 
He only saw the color of her cheek. 
He watched the midnight stars until they 

wore 
Her beauty's likeness — love's astrology. 

His was the gifted eye, which grace still 

touch'd 
As if with second nature ; and his dreams, 
His childish dreams, were lit by hues from 

heaven — 
Those which make genius. Now his visions 

wore 
A grace more actual, and one worship'd face 
Inspired the young sculptor, till like life 
His spirit warm'd the marble. AVho shall say 
The love of genius is a common thing, 
Such as the many feel — half selfishness, 
Half vanity 1 — for genius i» divine, 
And, like a god, doth turn its dwelling-place 
Into a temple ; and the heart redeem'd 
By its fine influence is immortal shrine 
For love's divinity. In common homes 
He dies, as he was born, in nothingness. 
But love, inspiring genius, makes the world 
Its glorious witness ; hence the poet's page 
Wakens its haunting sympathy of pain ; 
And hence the painter with a touch creates 
Feelings imperishable. 'Twas from that houf 
Canota took his inspiration : love 
Made him the sculptor of all loveliness 5 
The overflowing of a soul imbued 
By most ideal grace, the memory 
347 



landon's poems, 

Which lingers round first passion's sepulchre. 
— ^Why do I say first love 1 — there is no 

second. 
Who asks in the same year a second growth 
Of spring leaves from the tree, corn from the 

field 1— 
They are exhausted. Thus 'tis with the 

heart : — 
'Tis not so rich in feeling or in hope 
To bear that one be crush'd, the other faded, 
Yet find them ready to put forth again. 
It does not always last ; man's temper is 
Often forgetful, fickle, and throws down 
The temple he can never build again ; 
But when it does last, and that asks for 

much, — 
A fix'd yet passionate spirit, and a mind 
Master of its resolves, — when that love lasts, 
It is in noblest natures. After years 
Tell how Canova felt the influence. 
They never spoke : she look'd too spiritual, 
Too pure for human passion ; and her face 
Seem'd hallow'd by the heaven it was so 

near. 
And days pass'd on ; — it was an eve in June — 
How ever could it be so fair a one 1^ 
And she came not : hue after hue forsook 
The clouds, like Hope, which died with them, 

nd night 
Came all too soon and shadowy. He rose. 
And wander'd through the city, o'er which 

hung 
The darkness of his thoughts. At length a 

strain 
Of ominous music wail'd along the streets : 
It was the mournful chanting for the dead. 
And the long t-apers flung upon the air 
348 



A SUMMER EVENING S TALE. 

A wild red light, and show'd the funeral train i 
Wreaths— what mockeries !■ — hung froii! the 

bier 5 
And there, pale, beautiful, as if in sleep, 
Her dark hair braided graceful with white 

■ flowers. 
She lay,- — his own beloved one ! 

No more, no more ! — love, turn thy boat to 
land,— 
I am so sorrowful at ray own words. 
Affection is an awful thing !--^Ala3 ! 
We give our destiny from our own hands, 
And trust to those most frail of all frail thingsi 
The chances of humanity. 
= — The wind hath a deep sound, more stern 

than sweet; 
And the dark sky is clouded ; tremulous, 
A few far stars'— how pale they look to- 
night ! — 
Touch the still waters with a fitful light. 
There is strange sympathy betvs^een all things, 
Though in the hurrying weariness of life 
We do not pause to note it : the glad day, 
Like a young king surrounded by the pomp 
Of gold and purple, sinks but to the shade 
Of the black night: — the chronicle I told 
Began with hope, fair skies, and lovely shapes. 
And ended in despair. Even thus our life 
In these has likeness ; with its many joys, 
Its fear, its eagerness, its varying page, 
Mark'd with its thousand colors, only tends 
To darkness, and to silence, and the grave I 



80 349 



THE MOUNTAIN GPtAVEa 

She sate beside the rock from which arose 
A mountain rivulet's blue wanderings ; 
And there, with careless hand, cast leaves and 

flowers -« 

To float upon the surface, or to sink. 
As the wind listed, for she took no heed, • 
Nor watch'd their progress. Suddenly she 

ceased 
While passed a cloud across her deep blue 

eyes : 
" Are ye not symbols of nie, ye fair flowers 1 
Thus in mere recklessness my willful hand 
Has wasted the whole beauty of a spring. 
And I have thrown your fragrant lives away 
In one vain moment's idleness." 'Tis strange 
How the heart, overpress'd with its own 

thoughts, — 
And what oppresses the young heart like 

love 1 — 
Grows superstitious, finds similitudes 
And boding fears in every change and chance. 
She bow'd her face upon her hands and wept. 
When suddenly her bright hair was flung 

back, 
Her cheek was turn'd to crimson, and the 

tears 
Lay like dew upon the rose. " Mine Agatha ! 
What ! weeping, love 1 I am not late to- 
night ; 
Our meeting star but trembles in the sky. 
In light as glistening as thine own sweet 

eyes." 

.350 



THE MOUNTAIN GRAVE. 

His words had a strange sound ; she had 

•forgot 
Her sorrow and its cause in the deep joy 
His presence brought. She gazed upon his 

face, 
As if 'twould vanish if she did not gaze : 
She slay'd her breath to listen to his words, 
Scarce daring credit her own happiness. 
There stood they, with the rich red light of 

_ eve 
Yet lingering, like a glory, on their heads, 
In the snow mirror of the mountain peak ; — 
A bright laburnum grew beside, — its boughs 
Flung over them a golden shower : the wave 
That wander'd at their feet was clear as Hope ; 
Their shapes were outlined in it ; and one 

star, 
Reflected too, shone like an augury 
Of good between them. — There they leajnt, 

while hours 
Pass'd, as time had no boundaries. earth. 
Yet art thou touch'd by heaven, though only 

touch'd, — 
Thy pleasures are but rainbows, which unite 
The glad heavens with thee in their transient 

beauty, 
Then melt away again upon the clouds. 
O youth, and love, which is the light of youth, 
Why pass ye as the morning? — life goes on, 
But like a bark that, first in carelessness, 
And afterward in fear of each rough gale. 
Has flung her richest freightage overboard. 
Who is there, though young still, yet having 

lost 
The warmlh, the freshness, morning's dew 

and light. 
Can bear to look back on their earlier hours, 
351 



LANDON S POEMS. 

When faith made its own happiness, and the 

heart 
Was credulous of its delight, and gave 
Its best affections forth so trustingly, 
Content toJove, not doubting of return? 
'Twas Agatha broke the sweet silence 

first : 
" My father told me he had seen to-day 
The gathering, Herman, of your hardy 

troops : 
You led them, mounted on your snow-wmte 

steed. — '■ 
He bade me fling to-night a double chain 
Of sighs and smiles, for the young warrior's 

truth 
Was sorely tried by absence. You will go. 
Like our bold river, into other lands. 
On its own proud free course ; whilst I shall 

send 
After thee hopes and prayers, like the poor 

leaves 
That I have cast upon the waves to perish." 
■ She spoke in mirth ; yet as she spoke, her 

words 
Caught such a sadness in their omen tone. 
In silence Hehman took her hand, and gazed 
Upon her face as he would picture it 
Within his inmost soul. A brow more fair 
Ne'er caught the silver softness of moonlight. 
Her cheek was as the mirror of her heart, 
Eloquent in its blushes, and its hues 
Now varied like the evening's ; — but 'tis vain 
To dwell on youthful lovers' parting hour. 
A first farewell, with all its passionate words. 
Its lingering looks, its gushing tears, its hopes 
Scarcely distinguish'd f-om its fears, its 

vows, — 

352 



THE MOUNTAIN GRAVE. 

They are its least of suffering ; for the heart 
Feels that it needs them not, yet breathes them 

still, 
Making them oracles. But the last star 
Sinks down amid the mountains: — he must 

go; 
By daybreak will his gallant vassals look 
To hear their chieftain's bugle. Watch'd she 

there 
His dark plume cast its shadow on the snows, 
pis rapid foot bound on from crag to crag : — 
The rocks have hid him from her eager view, 
But still she hears the echo of his step, — 
That dies too into silence ; then she feels 
Her utter loneliness : — he is quite gone ! 
Long days have pass'd — that evening star 

hath left 
Its throne of beauty on the snow-crown'd 

hill, 
Yielding its place to winter's thousand 

lights !— 
Long days have pass'd : — again the twilight 

hour 
Smiles in the influence of that lovely star ; 
The bright laburnum's golden wealth is 

heap'd. 
The' spring's first treasure, and beneath its 

shade 
Rests Agatha alone : — what ! still alone 1 
A few short words will tell what change 

has wrought 
In their once love : it is a history 
That would suit half mankind. In its first 

spring, — 
For the heart has its spring of bud and bloom 
Even as has the year, — it found a home 
For all its young affections, gentle thou hts, 
30* 353 



landon's poems. 

In his true maiden's bosom ; arid the life 
He dream'd of was indeed a dream — 'twas 

made 
Of quiet happiness : but forth he went 
Into the wild world's tumult. As the bloom 
Fades from the face of nature, so the gloss 
Of his warm feelings faded with their fresh- 
ness ; 
Ambition took the place of Love, and Hope 
Fed upon fiery thoughts, aspiring aims ; 
And the bold warrior, favorite of his king, 
If that he thought of his first tenderness, 
Thought of it but with scorn, or vain excuse, 
And in her uncomplaining silence read 
But what he wish'd, — oblivion ; and at last 
Her very name had faded, like the flower 
Which we have laid upon our heart, and there 
Have sufifer'd it to die. A second spring 
Has loosed the snowy waters, and has fill'd 
The valleys with her joy ; but, Agatha, 
It is not spring for thee ; it has not brought 
Its sunny beauty to thy deep blue eyes. 
Its dew to freshen thy lips' languid rose. 
And its bloom is not for thy cheek. One 

year, 
And thou didst hide thy misery, and seem. 
With thy gay songs and smiles and gladsome 

words. 
Still ia thine aged father's sight the same. 
His pride was wounded by young Herman's 

falsehood. 
But not his happiness ; and when he died. 
It was with blessings breathed in trusting 

hope 
Upon that dear child's head, whose tender- 
ness 
Had made him half forget the path he trod, 
354 



THf; MOUNTAIN GRAVE. 

Was hurrying to the grave. But he was 

dead, 
And Agatha stood in his lonely halls, 
An orphan, last of all her race and name, 
Without one tie of kindred or of love 
To bind her to the earth. Yet few there were 
That dream'd the hidden grief that lurk'd 

within. 
Too kind, too gentle not to be beloved. 
Many a vassal mourn'd the coming death, 
Whose sign was written on his lady's cheek. 

She died in silence, without sign or word 
That might betray the memory of her fate ; 
But when they heard her last request, to lie 
Beneath the shade of the laburnum tree. 
Which grew beside the mountain rivulet, 
Many a cheek grew red, and brow grew dark, 
And many a whisper'd word recall'd the time 
When, in unworldly and in happy youth, 
, The valley's chieftain and the mountain girl 
Made it their favorite haunt ; all call'd to mind 
Then was the morning color on her cheek, 
Then her life was as summer in its smile, . 
• And all felt, as they laid her in the grave, 
It was the lorn rest of the broken heart. 

Years pass'd : — the green moss had o'er- 

grown the stone 
Which mark'd the orphan maiden's lowly 

grave, 
When rode an armed train beside the stream. 
Why does One pause beneath the lonely tree, 
And watch the starlight fall on the white 

stone 1 
That martial step, that haughty brow, so 

traced 
With lines of the world's welfare, are not 

such 

355 



LANDON S POEMS. 

As linger with a ready sympathy 
O'er the foot-prints of sorrow ; yet that cheek 
Was stai'tled into paleness as he read 
Agatha ! — and the mossy date which told 
She had been tenant of that tomb for years. 
Herman, — for he it was, had sought the vale. 
But upon warlike mission — if he thought 
Of his once love, it was but how to shun 
The meek reproaching of her mournful eye, 
Or else to think she had like him forgot. 
But dead ! — so young ! — he had not dream'd 

of this.^- 
He knelt him down, and like a child he 

wept ; — 
Gentle affections struggled with, subdued — 
Tenderness, long forgotten, now burst forth 
Like raindrops from the summer sky. Those 

tears 
Pass'd, and their outward trace ; but in his 

heart 
A fountain had sprung up, which dried no 

more. 
He went on in his course, proud, bold, and 

never 
The name of Agatha fell from his lips. 
But he died early, and in his last field 
He pray'd the brother of his arms to take 
His heart, and lay it in the distant grave 
Where Agatha was sleeping. 
356 



THE CONISTON CURSE: 

A TOIIKSHIRE LEGEKB. 

There is a tradition of such a curse attached to one 
of the old mansions in the north of England ; I am not 
aware of any cause for the malediction. This will, I 
trust, be sufficient excuse for placing its origin in a 
period when such a circumstance was most likely to 
have taken place ; when enough of superstition re- 
mained for terror to have produced its fulfilment. 

They knelt upon the altar steps, but other 

looks were there 
Than the calm and inward looks which suit 

the evening hour of prayer 
Many a cheek was deadly pale, while some 

were flush'd with red, 
And hurriedly and falteringly the holy words 

were said. 

They knelt their last, they sang their last ; for 
deep the king hath sworn, 

The silent cells should strangely change be- 
fore the coming morn ; 

The cloister'd votary henceforth is free from 
vow or vail. 

Her gray robes she may doff, and give her 
bright hair to the gale. 

And pardon be to them, if some, in their first 

hour of bloom. 
Thought all too lightly in their hearts 'twas 

not so hard a doom ; 

357 



liANDON'S POEMS. 

For they were young, and they were fair, and 

little in their shade 
Knew they of what harsh elements the jarring 

world was made. 

There knelt one young, there knelt one fair, 

but unlike those around. 
No change upon her stately mien or on her 

brow was found, 
Save haughtier even than its wont now seem'd 

that lady's face, 
And never yet was brow more proud among 

her haughty race. 

Betroth'd to one who fell in war, the last of 

all her name. 
In her first youth and loveliness the noblo 

maiden came ; 
Vigil and prayers and tears perchance, had 

worn her bloom away. 
When held that youthful prioress in St. 

Edith's shrine her sway. 

She gave her broad lands to its use, she gave 

her golden dower — 
Marvel ye that ill she brook'd the chance that 

ruled the hour 1 
And it may be more fiercely grew her pious 

zeal allied 
To this her all of earthly power — her all of 

earthly pride. 

Comes from the isle a heavy sound, such steps 

as tread in steel, 
The clash of sword, the ring of shield, the 

tramp of armed heel ; 
358 



THE CONISTON OIJESE. 

The prioress bade her nuns upraise the Ves- 
per's sacred tone, 

She led the hymns but mute the rest — no voice 
rose but her own : 

For open now the gates were flung, in pour'd 

the soldier train, 
And shout and shriek, and oath and prayer, 

rang through the holy fane ; 
Then forth the prioress stepp'd, and raised the 

red cross in her hand — 
No warrior of her race e'er held more fearless 

battle brand. 

" Now turn. Sir Johjt De Cokiston, I bid 

thee turn and flee, 
Nor wait till Heaven, by my sworn lips, lay 

its dread curse on thee ! 
Turn back Sir John De Conistoit, turn froin 

our sainted shrine. 
And years of penance may efiace this godless 

deed of thine." 

Rough Was Sir Johit De Conistoit, and hasty 

in his mood. 
And, soldier-Hke, then answer'd he, in angry 

speech and rude : 
•♦ I would not back although my path were 

lined with hostile swords. 
And deem'st thou I will turn aside for only 

woman's words?" 

She raised her voice, the curse was pass'd ; 
^ and to their dying day 
The sound, like thunder in their ears, will 
never pass away ; # 

359 



IjANdon's poems. 

Still haunted them those flashing eyes, that 

brow of funeral stone, 
When the words were said, she vail'd her 

face""the prioress was gone. 

^f<» more in that calm sanctuary its vestal 

maids abide. 
Save one, 8ir Johjj be CoxisTOsr, and that 

one is thy bride; 
The sister band to other homes at will might 

wander free, 
And their lonely prioress had fled a pilgrim 

o'er the sea. 

Seven years St. Elite's votary has wander'd 

far and near, 
Barefoot and fasting, she has call'd on every 

saint to hear : 
Seven years of joy and festival have pass'd 

away like hours, 
Siifte that priory had changed its state to a 

baron's lordly towers. 

There was reveling in that stately hall, and 

in his seat of pride 
The Lord of Coniston was placed, with his 

lady by his side ; 
And four fair children there were ranged be» 

side their parents' knee, 
All glad and beautiful-*-a sight for weary eyes 

to see. 

Rang the old turrets with the pledge — " Now 

health to thee and thine ; 
And long and prosperous may thy name last 
? in thy gallant line I" 
360 



THE CONISTON CtfESE. 

When a voice rose up above them all, and 
that voice was strange and shrill. 

Like autumn's wind when it has caught win- 
ter's first shriek and chill ; 

And forth a vail'd figure stepp'd, but back she 

flung her vail, 
And they knew St. Edith's prioress by her 

brow so deadly pale ; 
No Fickly paleness of the cheek whence health 

. and hope have fled, 
But that deadly hue, so wan, so cold, which 

only suits the dead. 

« The prey of the ungodly is taken by God's 

hand — 
I lay the endless curse of change upon this 

doomed land : 
They may come and possession take, even as 

thou hast done. 
But the father never, never shall transmit it 

to his son. 

*' Yet I grieve for the fair branches, though of 

such evil tree ; 
But the wierd is laid, and the curse is said, 

and it rests on thine and thee." 
Away she pass'd, though many thought to 

stay her in the hall ; 
She glided from them, and not one had heard 

her footstep fall. 

And one by one those children in their earli- 
est youth declined. 
Like sickening flowers that fade and fall be- 
fore the blighting wind ; 
31 361 



r 



ItAnson's poems. 

And their mother she too pined away, stricken 

by the same blast, 
Till Sir John de Coniston was left, the 

lonely and the last. 

He sat one evening in his hall, still pride was 

on his brow. 
And the fierce spirit lingering there nor time 

nor grief could bow. * 

Yet something that told failing strength was 

now upon his face. 
When entered that dark prioress, and fronted 

him in place. 

*♦ Sir John, thy days are nwmber'd and neve? 

more we meet 
Till we yield our last dread reckoning before 

God's judgment seat 
My words, they are the latest sounds thme ear 

shall ever take — 
Then hear me curse again the land which ia 

cursed for thy sake. 

*' 0, Coniston, thy lands are broad, thy stately 

towers are fair. 
Yet wo and desolation are for aye the tenants 

there; 
For Death shall be thy keeper, and two of the 

same race 
Shall ne'er succeed each other in thy fated 

dwelling-place !" 

The curse is on it to this day : now others 

hold the land ; 
But be they childless, or begirt with a fair 

infant band, 

3&2 



THE OMEN. 

Some sudden death, some wasting ill, some 

sickness taints the air, 
And touches all, — no master yet has ever left 

au heir. 



THE OMEN. 



«0 Ho-w we miss the young and bright. 
With her feet of wind, her eyes of light, 
Her fragrant hair like the sunny sea 
On the perfumed shores of Araby, 
Her gay step light as the snow-white deer, 
And her voice of song ! O ! we miss her here. 
There is something sad in the lighted hall ; 
Without her can there be festival ! 
There is something drear in the meteor dance. 
When we do not catch her laughing glance : 
But pledge we her health." Each one took 

up. 
In that ancient hall, the red wine-cup : 
Each started back from the turbid wine — 
What coufd have dimm'd its purple shine 1 
Each turn'd for his neighbor's look to ex- 
press 
The augury himself dared not to guess- 
Swept the vaulted roof along, 
A sound like the echo of distant song. 
When the words are lost, but you know they 

tell 
Of sorrow's coming and hope's farewell. 
Such sad music could only bear 
Tale and tidings of long despair. 
363 



LANDON S POEMS. 

Pass'd the sound from the ancient hall ; 
You heard in the distance its plaining fall. 
Till it died away on the chill night-wind : 
But it left its fear and its sadness behind ; 
And each one went to his pillow that night 
To hear fearful sound, and see nameless 

sight ; 
Not such dreams as visit the bower 
Of the gay at the close of the festal hour ' 

But next morning rose: 'twas a cheerful 

time 
For the sunshine seemed like the summer 

prime. 
While the bright laurel leaves round the case- 

toents spread, 
And the holly with berries of shining red, 
The heaven of blue, and the earth of green, 
Seem'd not as if the winter had been. 
Welcomed they in the Christmas morn. 
With the sound of the carol, the voice of the 

horn. 
There was white snow lay on the distant hill. 
The murmuring river was cold and still ; 
. But their songs were so glad that they miss'd 

not its tone, 
And the hearth-fire was bright as an August 

noon. 
As if youth came back with th.e joyous strain. 
The aged lord welcomed in the train 
Of guest and vassal ; for glad seem'd he 
To make and to share their festivity. 

Though he may not see his Edith's brow 
Though far away be his fair child now, 
Over the sea, and over the strand, 
In the sunny vales of Italian land, 
364 



THE OMEN. 

He may reckon now the days to spring, 
When her native birds and she will take 

wing, 
Blithe and beautiful, glad to come 
With the earliest flowers to their own dear 

home. 
Pass a short space of dark cold days, 
Of drear nights told by the pinewood's blaze. 
And the snow showers will melt into genial 

rain, 
And the sunshine and she be back again. 
And when she returns with her sweet guitar, 
The song and the tale she has learn'd afar, 
And caught the sweet sound to which once 

he clung. 
The southern words of her mother's tongue, 
W^th her soft cheek touched with a rosier 

dye, 
And a clearer light in her deep dark eye, 
He will not mourn that the winter hour 
Has pass'd unfelt by his gentle flower. 
It is Christmas day — 'tis her natal morn. 
Away be all thoughts of sorrowing borne; 
'I'here is no prayer a vassal can frame 
Will fail to-day, if breathed in her name ; 
Henceforth that guest is a bosom friend 
Whose wish a blessing for her may send. 

Her picture hung in that hall, where to-day 
Gather'd the guests in their festal array; 
'Twas a fragile shape, and a fairy face, 
A cheek where the wild rose had sweet birth- 
place ; 
But all too delicate was the red, 
Such rainbow hues are the soonest fled. 
The sweet mouth seem'd parted with fragrant 
air, 
31* 3^5 



xandon's poems. 

A kiss and a smile were companions there : 
Never was the wild fawn's eye more bright, 
Like the star that heralds the morning's light ; 
Though that trembling pensiveness it wore 
Which bodes of a lustre too soon to be o'er. 
But to mark these signs long gazing took : 
Seem'd it at first but that your look 
Dwelt on a face all glad and fair, 
'Mid its thousand curls of sunny hair 
They raised the cup to pledge her name ; 
Again that strange sad music came, 
But a single strain, — loud at its close 
A cry from the outer crowd arose. 

All rushed to gaze ; and, winding through 
The length of the castle avenue. 
There was a hearse with its plumes of sno^, 
And its night-black horses moved heavy and 

slow. 
One moment — they came to the festal hall. 
And bore in the coffin a velvet pall. 
A name was whisper'd ; the young, the fair. 
Their Edith was laid in her last sleep there. 
It was her latest prayer to lie 
In the churchyard beneath her native sky ; 
She had ask'd and pined for her early home ; 
She had come at last, — but how had she 



come 



O ! that aged lord, how bore he this grief. 

This rending off of his last green leaf 

He wasted away as the child that dies 

For love of its absent mother's eyes ; 

Ere the spring flowers o'er her grave were 

weeping, 
The father beside his child was sleeping. 
366 



SAPPHO. 

" . . . . She was one 

Whose lyre the spirit of sweet song had hnng 
With myrtle and with laurel ; on whose head ■ , 
Genius had shed his starry glories . . . 
. . . transcripts of woman's loving heart 
And woman's disappointment." .... 

She leant upon her harp, and thousands 

look'd 
On her in love and wonder — thousands knelt 
And worship'd in her presence — burning 

tears, 
And words that died in utterance, and a 

pause 
Of breathless, agitated eagerness 
First gave the full heart's homage ; then came 

forth 
A shout that rose to heaven ; and the hills, 
The distant valleys, all rang with the name 
Of the ^olian Sappho — every heart 
Found in itself some echo to her song. 
Low notes of love — hopes beautiful and fresh. 
And some gone by forever — glorious dreams, 
High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts 
That dwell upon the absent and the dead, 
Were breathing in her music — and these are 
Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she 
Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed, 
Her colors varying with deep emotion — 
There is a softer blush than conscious pride 
Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile 
Is all a woman's timid tenderness : 
Her eye is on a Youth, and other days 
367 



landon's poems. 

And young warm feelings have rushed on her 

soul 
With all their former influence, — thoughts 

that slept 
Cold, calm as death, have waken'd to nev? 

life- 
Whole years' existence have pass'd in that 

glance • . . 
She had once loved in very early days : 
That was a thing gone by : one had call'd 

forth 
The music of her soul : he loved her too 
But not as she did — she was unto him 
As a young bird, whose early flight he train'd. 
Whose first wild songs were sweet, for he had 

taught 
Those songs — but she look'd up to him with 

all 
Youth's deep and passionate idolatry ; 
Love was her heart's sole universe — he was 
To her, Hope, Genius, Energy, the God 
Her inmost spirit worship'd — in whose smile 
Was all e'en minstrel pride held precious ; 

praise 
Was prized but as the echo of his own. 

But other times and other feelings came : 
Hope is love's element, and love with her 
Sicken'd of its own vanity .... She 

lived 
'Mid bright realities and brighter dreams 
Those strange but exquisite imaginings 
That tinge with such sweet colors minstrel 

thoughts ; 
And fame, like sunlight, was upon her path : 
And strangers heard her name, and eyes that 

never 

368 



SAPPHO. 

Had laok'd on Sappho, yet had wept with 

her. 
Her first love never wholly lost its power, 
But, like rich incense shed, although no trace 
Was of its visible presence, yet its sweetness 
Mingled with every feeling, and it gave 
That soft and melancholy tenderness 
Which was the magic of her song .... That 

Youth 
Who knelt before her was so like the shape 
That haunted her spring dreams — the same 

dark eyes, 
Whose light had once been as the light of 

heaven ! — 
Others breathed winning flatteries — she 

turn'd 
A careless hearing — but when Phaon spoke. 
Her heart beat quicker, and the crimson light 
Upon her cheek gave a most tender an- 
swer ... 
She loved with all the ardor of a heart 
Which lives but in itself: her life had pass'd 
Amid the great creations of the mind : 
Love was to her a vision — it was now 
Heighten'd into devotion .... But a 

soul 
So gifted and so passionate as hers 
Will seek companionship in vain, and find 
Its feelings solitary .... Phaon soon 
Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid ; 
And Sappho knew that genius, riches, fame, 
May not soothe slighted love.. - - - - 
- - - There is a dark rock looks on the blue 

sea; 
'Twas there love's last song echo'd — there 

she sleeps, 



569 



juAndon's poems. 

Whose lyre was crown'd with laurel, and 

whose name 
Will be remember'd long as Love or Song 
Are sacred — the devoted Sappho! 



BACCHUS AND ARIADNE. 

Leonardi. 'Tis finish'd now : look on my 

picture, Love ! 
Altine. O, that sweet ring of graceful fig- 
ures ! one 
Flings her white arms on high, and gayly 

strikes 
Her golden cymbals — I can almost deem 
I hear their beatings ; one with glancing feet 
Follows her music, while her crimson cheek 
Is flush'd with exercise, till the red grape 
'Mid the dark tresses of a sister nymph 
Is scarcely brighter : there another stands, 
A darker spirit yet, with joyous brow. 
And holding a rich goblet : O, that child ! 
With eyes as blue as spring-days, and those 

curls 
Throwing their auburn shadow o'er a brow 
So arch, so playful — have you bodied forth 
Young Cupid in your colors 1 

Leonahdi. No — O no, 
I could not paint Love as a careless boy, — 
That passionate divinity, whose life 
Is of such deep and intense feeling ! No, 
I am too true, too earnest, and too happy. 
To ever image by a changeful child 
That which is so unchangeable. But mark 
370 






SACCHtJS ASTD AEIADKE. 

How sweet, how. pale, the light that I havg 

thrown 
Over the picture ; it is just the time 
When Dian's dewy kiss lights up the dreams 
That make Endymion's sleep so beautiful. 
Look on the calm blue sky, so set with stars 3 
Is it not lilte to what we both recall ? 
Those azure shadows of a summer night. 
That vail'd the cautious lutanist who waked 
Thy slumbers with his song. How more than 

fair, 
How like a spirit of that starry hour, 
I used to think you, as your timid hand 
Unbaxr'd the casement, and you leant to hear. 
Your long hair floating loose amid the vines 
Around yoar lattice ; and how very sweet 
Your voice, scarce audible, with the soft fear 
That mingled in its low and tender tones ! 
AtTiNE. Nay, now, I will not listen to the 

tales 
Our memory is so rich in. I have much 
For question here. Who is this glorious 

shape. 
That, placed on a bright chariot in the midst* 
Stands radiant in his youth and loveliness 1 
Around his sunny locks there is a wreath 
Of the green vine leaves, and his ivory brow 
Shines out like marble, when a golden ray 
Of summer light is on it, and his step 
Scarce seems to touch his pard-drawn car, bu5 

floats 
Buoyant upon the air ;^-and who is she 
On whom his ardent gaze is tarn'd 1 Sc 

pale, — 
Her dark hair gather'd round her like a 



shroud, 



371 



LANDON'S POSMSo 

Yet far more lovely than the sparkling 

nymphs 
Dancing around that chariots Yet how 

sweet, 
Though dimm'd with tears, those deep blue 

eyes, 
Half turn'd and half averted timidly 
From the youth's lightning glance. O tell 

me now 
One of those legends that I love so well : 
Has not this picture some old history 1 

Leonardi. 'Tis one of those bright fictions 

that have made 
The name of Greece only another w^ord 
For love and poetry ; with a green earth — 
Groves of the graceful myrtle^summer skies 
Whose stars are mirror'd in ten thousand 

streams, 
Winds that move but in perfume and in 

music, 
And, more than all, the gift of woman's 

beauty. 
What marvel that the earth, the sky, the 

sea. 
Were fiU'd with all those fine imaginings 
That love creates, and that the lyre preserves ! 
AiviNB. But for the history of that pale 

girl 
Who stands so desolate on the seashore 1 
Leonahdi. She was the daughter of a 

Cretan king — 
A tyrant. Hidden in the dark recess 
Of a wide labyrinth, a monster dwelt, 
And every year was human tribute paid 
By the Athenians. They had bowed in war, 
Ahd every spring the flowers of all the city, 
372 



BACCHUS AND ARIADNE. 

Foung maids in their first beauty — stately 

youths, 
Were sacrificed to the fierce King ! They 

died 
In the unfathomable den of want, 
Or served the Minotaur for food. At length 
There came a royal Youth, who vow'd to 

slay 
The monster or to perish ! — Look, Alvine, 
That statue is young Theseus. 

Alyine. Glorious ! 
How like a god he stands, one haughty hand 
Raised in defiance ! I have often look'd 
Upon the marble, wondering it could give 
Such truth to life and majesty. 

Leoivakbi. You will not marvel Ariadne 
loved ! 
She gave the secret clue that led him safe 
Through all the labyrinth, and she fled with 
him. 
ALViifE. Ah, now I know your tale : he 
proved untrue. 
This ever has been woman's fate, — to love, 
To know one summer day of happiness, 
And then to be most wretched ! 

Leonaedi. She was left 

By her so heartless lover while she slept. 
She woke from pleasant dreams — she dreamt 

of him — 
Love's power is felt in slumber— woke and 

found 
Herself deserted on the lonely shore 1 
The bark of the false Theseus was a speck 
Scarce seen upon the waters, less and less, 
Like hope diminishing, till wholly past 
I will not say, for you can fancy well, 
Her desolate feelings as she roam'd the beach,^ 
32 373 



Landon's poems. 

Hurl'd from the highe t heaven of happy 

love ! 
But evening crimson'd the blue sea — a sound 
Of music and of mirth came on the wind, 
And radiant shapes and laughing njrmphs 

danced by, 
And he, the Theban God, looked on the 

maid. 
And look'd, and loved, and was beloved 

again. 
This is the moment that the picture gives 3 
He has just flung her starry crown on high 
And bade it there a long memorial shine 
How a god loved a mortal. He is springing 
From out his golden car-^another bound-'-- 
Bacchus is by his Ariadne's side ! 

Altinb. She loved again ! cold incon- 
stancy ! 
( This is not woman's love : her love should 

^ -ije" r " ~ ■ - 

A feeling pure and holy as the flame 
The vestal virgin kindles, fresh as flowers 
The spring has but just colored, innocent 
As the young dove^ and changeless as the 

faith 
The martyr seals in blood. ) 'Tis beautiful 
This picture, but it wakes no sympathy. 
Leokabdo. Next time, Alvine, my pencil 
shall but give 
Existence to the memory of love's truth. 
Alvine. Do you recall a tale you told me 
once, 
Of the forsaken Nymph that Paris left 
For new love and ambition 1 at his death 
He bade them bear him to Enone's arms ! 
She never had forgotten him : her heart, 
4^ Which beat so faithfully, became his pillow 5 
374 



UNKNOWN FEMALE HEAD, 

She closed his eyes, and pardon'd him and 
died! 
Leon AUDI. Love, yes ; I'll paint thoir 
meeting : the wan youth 
Dying, but yet so happy in forgiveness ; 
The' sweet Enone, with her gentle tears, 
Fill'd with meek tenderness, her pensive 

brow 
Arching so gracefully, with deep blue eyes 
Half hidden by the shadowy lash — a look 
So patient, yet so fraught with tenderest feel- 
ing, 
Like to an idol placed upon the shrine 
Of faith, for all to worship. She shall be, 
Saving thine own inimitable smile, 
In all like thee, Alvine ! 



UNKNOWN FEMALE HEAD. 

I KNOW not of thy history, thou sad 
Yet beautiful faced Girl : — the chestnut 

braid 
Bound darkly round thy forehead, the blue 

veins 
Wandering in azure light, the ivory chin 
Dimpled so archly, have no characters 
Graven by memory ; but thy pale cheek. 
Like a white rose on which the sun hath 

look'd 
Too wildly warm, (is not this passion's le- 
gend 1) 
The drooping lid whose lash is bright with 

tears, 
A lip which has the sweetness of a smile 
375 



LAXDOXS POEHS. 

But not its gayety — do not these bear 

The scorch'd footprints sorrow leaves iu pas- 

ing 
O'er the clear brow of youth 1 — It may but 

be 
An idle thought, but I have dream'd thou 

wert 
A captive in thy hopelessness : afar 
From the sweet home of thy young infancy, 
Whose image unto thee is as a dream 
Of fire and slaughter. I can see thee wasting, 
Sick for thy native air, loathing the light 
And cheerfulness of men ; thyself the last 
Of all thy house, a stranger and a slave ! 



LEAXDER AXD HEEO. 

It is a tale that many songs have told. 
And old, if tale of love can e'er be old ; 
Tet dear to me this lingering o'er the fate 
Of two so young, so true, so passionate ! 
And thou, the idol of my harp, the soul 
Of poetry, to me my hope, my whole 
Happiness of existence, there will be 
Some gentlest tones that I have caught from 

thee. 
"Will not each heart-pulse vibrate as I tell 
Of faith even unto death unchangeable ! 
Leander and his Hero I they shoxild be, 
When youthful lovers talk of constancy. 
Invoked. O, for one breath of softest song. 
Such as on summer evenings floats along. 
To murmur low their history ! every word 
376 



LEANDEK AND HERO. 

That whispers of them, should be like those 

heard 
At moonlight casements, when the awaken'd 

maid 
Sighs her soft answer to the serenade. 

She stood beside the altar, like the queen, 
The bright-eyed queen that she was worship- 
ping. 
Her hair was bound with roses, which did 
fling 
A perfume round, for she that mom had 
been 
To gather roses, that were clustering now 
Amid the shadowy curls upon her brow. 
One of the loveliest daughters of that land, 
Divinest Greece ! that taught the painter's 
hand 
To give eternity to loveliness ; 
One of those dark-eyed maids, to whom be- 
long 
The glory and the beauty of each song 

Thy poets breathed, for it was theirs to 
bless 
With life the pencil and the lyre's dreams 
Giving reality to vision'd gleams 
Of bright divinities. Amid the crowd 
That in the presence of young Hero bow'd. 
Was one that knelt with fond idolatry 
As if in homage to some deity, 
Gazing upon her as each gaze he took 
Must be the very last — that intense look 
That none but lovers give, when they would 

trace 
On their heart's tablets some adored face. 
The radiant priestess from the temple past ; 
Yet there Leander stayed, to catch the last 
32* 377 



L A N D N ' S F H JI S . 

Wave of her fragrant hair, the last low fall 
Of her white feet, so light and musical ; 

And then he wander'd silent to a grove, 
To feed upon the full heart's ecstacy. 
The moon was sailing o'er the deep blue sky 
Each moment shedding fuller light above, 
As the pale crimson from the west departs. 
Ah, this is just the hour for passionate hearts 
To linger over dreams of happiness. 
All of young love's delicious loveliness ! 

The cypress waved upon the evening air 
Like the long tresses of a beauty's hair ; 
And close beside was laurel ; and the pale 
Snow blossoms of the myrtle tree, so frail 
And delicate, like woman ; 'mid the shade 
Rose the white pillars of the colonnade 
Around the marble temple, where the Queen 
Of love was worshipp'd, and there was seen. 
Where the grove ended, the so glorious sea 
Now in its azure sleep's tranquillity. 
He saw a white vail wave — his heart beat 

high : 
He heard a voice, and then a low-toned sigh. 
Gently he stole amid the shading trees — 
It is his love — his Hero that he sees ! 
Her hand lay motionless upon the lute. 
Which thrill'd beneath the touch ; her lip was 

mute, 
Only her eyes were speaking ; dew and light 
There blended like the hyacinth, when night 
Has wept upon its bosom ; she did seem 
As consciousness were lost in some sweet 

dream — 
That dream was love ! Blushes were on her 

cheek. 
And what, save love, do blushes ever speak 1 
378 



LB-ANDER AND HERO. 

Her lips were parted, as one moment more, 
And then the heart would yield its hidden 

store. 
'Twas so at length her thought found utter- 
ance : 
Light, feeling, flash'd from her awakcn'd 

glance — 
She paused— then gazed on one pale star 

above, 
Pour'd to her lute the burning words of love ! 
Leander heard his name ! How more than 

sweet 
That moment, as he knelt at Hero's feet. 
Breathing his passion in each thrilling word. 
Only by lovers said, by lovers heard. 

That night they parted — but they met 
again ! 
The blue sea roll'd between them — but in vain ! 
Leander had no fear — he cleft the wave ! 
What is the peril fond hearts will not brave ? 
Delicious were their moonlight wanderings, 
Delicious were the kind and gentle things 
Each to the other breathed; a starry sky, 
Music and flowers, — this is love's luxury ; 

The measure of its happiness is full 
When all around shares its own enchanted 

lull. 
There were sweet birds to count the hours, 

and roses, 
Like those which on a blushing cheek re- 
poses ; 
Violets fresh as violets could be ; 
Stars overhead, with each a history 
Of love told by its light ; and waving trees, 
And perfumed breathings upon every breeze : 
These were beside them when they met. And 
day, 

379 



LANDON S POEMS. 

Though each was from the other far away 
Had still its pleasant memories; they might 
Think what they had forgotten the last night, 
And make the tender thing they had to say 
More warm and welcome from its short delay. 
And then their love was secret, — 0, it is 
Most exquisite to have a fount of bliss 
Sacred to us alone, no other eye 
Conscious of our enchanted mystery, 
Ourselves the sole possessors of a spell 
Giving us happiness unutterable ! 
I would compare this sccresy and shade 
To that fair island, whither Love convey 'd 
His Psyche, where she lived remote from all : 
Life one long, lone, and lovely festival ; 
But when the charm, concealment's charm, 
was known, 

then good-by to love, for love was flown ! 
Love's wings are all too delicate to bear 
The open gaze, the common sun and air. 

There have been roses round my lute ; but 
now 

1 must forsake them for the cypress bough 
Now is my tale of tears : — One night the sky, 
As if with passion darken'd angrily, 

And gusts of wind swept o'er the troubled 

main 
Like hasty threats, and then were calm again : 
That night young Hero by her beacon kept 
Her silent watch, and blamed the night and 

wept. 
And scarcely dared to look upon the sky ; 
Yet lulling still her fond anxiety — 
With, "Surely in such a storm he cannot 

brave, 
If but for my sake only, wind and wave," * • 
At length Aurora led young Day and blush 'd, 
380 



HEAD OF AEIADNE. 

In her sweet presence sea and sky were 

hush'd ; 
What is there beauty cannot charm 1 her 

power 
Is felt alike, in storm and sunshine hour ; 
And light and soft the breeze which waved 

the vai! 
Of Hero, as she wander'd, lone and pale, 
Her heart sick with its terror, and her eye 
Roving in tearful, dim uncertainty. 
Not long uncertain, — she mark'd something 

glide 
Shadowy and indistinct, upon the tide. 
On rush'd she in that desperate energy, 
Which only has to know, and, knowing, die ; 
It was Leander ! 



HEAD OF ARIADNE. 

O, WHT should Woman ever love, 
Throwing her chance away, 

Her little chance of summer shine, 
Upon a rainbow ray 1 

Look back on each old history. 
Each fresh remember 'd tale ; 

They'll tell how often love has made 
The cheek of woman pale ; — 

Her unrequited love, a flower 

Dying for air and light ; 
Her love betray'd, another flower 

Withering before a bhght. 

381 



landon's poems. 

Look down within the silent grave ; 

How much of breath and bloom 
Have wasted, — passion's sacrifice 

Offer'd to the lone tomb. 

Look on her hour of solitude, 

How many bitter cares 
Belie the smile with which the lip 

Would sun the wound it bears. 

Mark this sweet face ! O, never blush 
Has pass'd o'er one more fair, 

And never o'er a brighter brow 
Has wander'd raven hair. 

And mark how carelessly those wreaths 

Of curl are flung behind, 
And mark how pensively the brow 

Leans on the hand reclined. 

'Tis she of Crete ! — another proof 

Of woman's weary lot ; 
Their April doom of sun and shower — 

To love, then be forgot. 

Heart-sickness, feelings tortured, torn, 

A sky of storm above, 
A path of thorns, — these are love's gifts- 

Ah, why must woman love ! 



NEREID FLOATING ON A SHELL. 

Tht dwelling is the coral cave. 
Thy element the blue sea wave, 
382 



A NEEEip FLOATIlfG 0» A SHELL. 

Thy music the wild billows dashing, 

Thy light the diamond's crystal flashing 

I'd leave this earth to dwell with thee. 

Bright-hair'd daughter of the sea ! 

It was an hour of lone starlight 

When first my eye caught thy sweet sight* 

Thy white feet press'd a silver shell, 

Love's own enchanted coracle ; 

Thy fair arms waved like the white loam 

The seas dash from their billowy home J 

And far behind, thy golden hair, 

A bright sail, floated on the air ; 

And on thy lips there was a song, 

As music wafted thee along. 

They say, sweet daughter of the sea, 

Thy look and song are treachery; 

Thy smile is but the honey 'd bait 

To lure thy lover to his fate. 

I know not and I care still lees ; 

It is enough of happiness 

To bo deceived. O, never yef 

Could love doubt — no, one doubt would set 

His fetter'd pinions free from all 

His false but most delicious thrall. 

Love cannot live and doubt ; and I, 

Vow'd slave to my bright deity. 

Have but one prayer : Come joy, come illj 

If you deceive, deceive me still ; 

Better the heart in faith should die 

Than break beneath love's perjury. 



AN OLD MAN OVER THE BODY 
• OF HIS SON. 

I AM too proud by far to weep, 
Though earth has naught so dear 

As was the Soldier Youth to me 
Now sleeping on that bier. 

tt were a stain upon his fame, 

Would do his laurel crown a shame, 
To shed one single tear. 

It was a blessed lot to die 

In battle, and for liberty ! 

He was my first, my only child, 
And when my race was run, 

I was so proud to send him forth 
To do as I had done. 

It was his last, his only field , 

They brought him back upon his shield, 
But victory was won. 

I cannot weep when I recall 

Thy land has cause to bless thy fall. 

When others tell their children all 

The fame that warriors win, 
I must sit silent, and but think 
On what my child has been. 
It is a father's joy to see 
The young eyes glow exultingly 
When warlike tales begin ; . 
And yet I know no living one 
I would change for my weeping Son. 
384 



THE THESSALIAN FOUNTAIN 

Crieamings of poetry, — if I may give 

That name of beauty, passion, and of grace 

To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour, 

In a pale twilight, or a rosebud morn, 

Glance o'er my spirit— thoughts that are lik« light. 

Or love, or hope, in their effects. 

A sMixi clear fountain, with green willow 

trees 
Girgling it round, there is one single spot 
Where you may sit and rest, its only bank ; 
Elsewhere the willows grew so thick together : 
And it were like a sin to crush that bed 
Of pale and delicate narcissus flowers, 
Bending so languidly, as still they found , 
In the pure wave a love and destiny ; 
But here the moss is soft, and when the wind 
Has been felt even through the forest screen — 
For round, like guardians to the willows, 

stand 
Oaks large and old, tall firs, dark beach, and 

elms 
Rich with the yellow wealth, that April 

brings,—- 
A shower of rose-leaves makes it like a bed 
Whereon a nymph might sleep, when, with 

her arm 
Shining like snow amid her raven hair, _ 
She dreamt of the sweet song wherewith the 

faun 
Had lull'd her, and awakening from her rest 
When through the leaves an amorous sunbeam 

stole 
And kiss'd her eyes; the fountain were a bath 
33 385 



lanbon's poems. 

For her to lave her ivory feet, and coo 
The crimson beapfy of her sleep-warm cheeky 
And bind her ruffled carls in the blue mirror 
Of the transparent waters. But these days 
Of visible poetry have long been past !— ~ 
No fear that the young hunter may profane 
The haunt of some immortal; but there stilI-~ 
For the heart clings to old idolatry, 
If not with true belief, with tenderness,-— 
3/ingers a spirit in the woods' and flowers 
Which have a Grecian memory, — some tale 
Of olden love or grief link'd with their bloom, 
Seem beautiful beyond all other ones. 
The marble pillars are laid in the dust, 
The golden shrine and its perfume are gone } 
But there are natural temples still for those 
Eternal though dethroned Deities, 
Where from green altars flowers send up their 

incense ; 
This fount is one of them. - » 



L'AMOEE DOMINATORE. 

Thet built a temple for the God, 
'Twas in a myrtle grove, 

Where the bee and the butterfly 
Vied for each blossom's love. 

The marble pillars rose like snow, " 
Glittering in the sunshine ; 

A thousand roses shed their breath. 
Like incense, ©'er the shrine. 
386 



l'amore dominatorb. 

And there were censers of perfume, 
Vases with their sweet showers, 

And wreaths of every blended hue 
That lights the summer flowers- 

And, like the breathing of those flowers 

Made audible, a sound 
Came, lulling as a waterfall, 

From lutes and voices roand. 

« 

I look'd upon the altar, — there 

The pictured semblance lay 
Of him the temple's lord; it shone 

More beautiful than day. 

It was a sleeping child, as fair 

As the firstborn of spring ; 
Like Indian gold waved the bright curk 

In many a sunny ring. 

His cheek was flush'd with its own rose. 

And with the crimson shed 
From the rich wings that like a cloud 

Were o'er his slumbers spread. 

And by him lay his feather'd shafts. 

His golden bow unbent; — 
Methought that, even in his sleep, 

His smile was on them sent. 

I heard them hymn his name — his power ; 

I heard them, and I smiled ; 
flow could they say the earth was ruled 

By but a sleeping child 1 

I went then forth into the world 

To see what might be there ; 
And there I heard a voice of wo, 

Of weeping, and despair- 
38? 



LANDON S POEMS. 

I saw a youthful warrior stand 
In his first light of fame, — 

His native city fiil'd the air 
With her deliverer's name 

I saw him hurry from the crowd 
And fling his laurel crown, 

In weariness, in hopelessness. 
In utter misery, down. 

9 

And what the sorrow, then I ask'd. 
Can thus the warrior move, 

To scora his meed of victory 1 
They told me it was love. 

I sought the forum, there was one 
With dark and haughty brow, — 

His voice was as the trumpet's tone. 
Mine ear rings with it now. 

They quail'd before his flashing eye,- 
They watch'd his lightest word — 

When suddenly that eye was dim. 
That voice no longer heard. 

I look'd upon his lonely hour, 

The weary solitude ; 
When over dark and bitter thoughts 

The sick heart's left to brood. 

I mark'd the haughty spirit's strife 
To rend its bonds in vain : 

Again I ask'd the cause of all. 
And heard love's name again. 

Y'et on I went ; I thought that Love 
To woman's gentle heart. 

Perhaps, had flung a lighter shaft. 
Had given a fairer part. 



landon's pokms. 

I look'd upon a lovely face, 

Lit by a large dark eye; 
But on the lash there was a tear 

And on the lip a sigh. 

I ask'd not why that form had droop'd, 
Nor why that cheek was pale ] 

I heard the maiden's twilight song, 
It told me all her tale. 

I saw an urn, and round it hung 

An April diadem 
Of flowers, telling they mourn'd one 

Faded and fair like them. 

I turn'd to tales of other days, 
They spoke of breath and bloom ; 

And proud hearts that were bow'd by love 
Into an early tomb. 

I heara of every suffering 

That on this earth can oe : 
How can they call a sleeping child 

A likeness, Love, of thee ! 

They cannot paint thee — let them dream 

A dark and nameless thing ; 
Why give the likeness of the dove 
Where is the serpent's sting 1 

33* 389 



THE CASTILIAN NUPTIALS. 

And days fled Vf, 
A cloud came o'er my destiny, 
The drean; of passion soon was past, 
A summer's day may never last, 
Yes, every feeling then knew change, 
One only hope was left — ^revenge ! 
He wedded with another — tears 
Are very vain, and as for fears 
I know them not — I deeply swore 
No lip sheuld sigh where mine before 
Had seal'd its vow, no heart should rest 
Upon the bosom mine had prest. 
Life had no ill I would not brave 
To claim him, even in the grave ! 

Faik is the form that in yon orange bower, 
Like a lone spirit, bends beside the lamp, 
Whose silver light is flung o'er clustering 

rose. 
And myrtle with pearl buds and emerald 

leaves. 
Green moss and azure violets have form'd 
The floor, and fragrant bloom the canopy. 
And perfumed shrubs and pillars, round whose 

stems 
The vine has crept, and mix'd its purple 

fruit 
Amid the rich-hued blossoms. Citron trees. 
And beds of hyacinths, have sent their sweets 
Upon the odorous dew of the night gale, 
Which, -playing with the trembling lamp, 

flings round 
A changeful light — now glancing on the 

flowers. 
And brightening every hue — now lost in 

shade. 

390 



THE CASTILIAN NUPTIALS. 

Look out upon the night ! There is no star 
In beauty visible — the moon is still 
Sojourning in her shadowy hall — the clouds 
Are thickening round ; but though the tem- 
pest's wing 
Will herald in the morning, all is still, 
And calm, and soothing now, — no rougher 

sounds 
Thaii the low murmur of the mountain rill, 
And the sweet music of the nightingale. 
Are on the air. But a far darker storm, 
The tempest of the heart, the evil war 
Of fiery passions, is fast gathering 
O'er that bright creature's head, whose fairy 

bower 
And fairy shape breathe but of happiness. 
She is most beautiful ! The richest tint 
That e'er with roselight dyed a summer 

cloud. 
Were pale beside her cheek ; her raven hair 
Falls even to her feet, though fasten'd up 
In many a curl and braid with bandis of 

pearl ; 
And that white bosom and those rounded 

arms 
Are perfect as a statue's, when the skill 
Of some fine touch has moulded it to beauty. 
Yet there are tears within those radiant eyes. 
And that fair brow is troubled! She is 

young ; 
But her heart's youth is gone, and innocence. 
And peace, and soft and gentle thoughts, have 

fled 
A breast, the sanctuary of unhallow'd fires. 
That love has led to guilt. At each light 

stir 
Of but a waving branch, a falling leaf, 
391 



LANDON S POEMS. 

A deeper crimson burnt upon her cheek, 
Each pulse beat eagerly, for every sound 
To her was Fernand's step, and then she 

sank 
Pallid and tearful, with that sickening throb 
Of sadness only love and fear can know. 
The night pass'd on — she touch'd the silver 

chords. 
And answer'd with her voice her lone guitar. 
It pleased her for a while ; — it soothes the 

soul 
To pour its thoughts in melancholy words ; 
And if aught can charm sorrow, music can. 
The song she chose was one her youth had 

loved 
Ere yet she knew the bitterneiss of grief, 
But thought tears luxury : — 

O take that starry wreath away, 
nir**? not those roses o'er my lute ! 

The brow that thou wouldsl crown is pale, 
The chords thou would awaken, mute. 

Look on those broken gems that lie 
Beside those flowers, withering there ; 

Those leaves were blooming round my lute. 
Those gems were bright amid my hair. 

And they may be a sign to tell 

Of all the ruin love will make : 
He co.TQes in beauty, and then leaves 

The hope to fade, the heart to break ! 

The song died in low sobs. " I ever felt 
' That it would come to this, — that I should 
be 
Forsaken and forgotten ! I would give 

392 



THE CASTILIAN NUPTIALS. 

Life, more than life, those precious memories 
Of happiness and Fernand — I'd forget 
That I have been beloved, all I have known 
Of rapture, all the dreams that long have been 
My sole existence, but to feel again 
As I felt ere I loved — ere I had given 
My every hope as passion's sacrifice !" 
Her face was hidden in her hands ; but tears 
Trickled Uirough her slight fingers — tears, 

those late 
Vain tributes to remorse! At length she 

rose. 
And paced with eager steps her scented 

bower, 
Then trimm'd her lamp, and gather'd flowers 

, and leaves. 
Twined them in wreaths, and placed them 

gracefully ; 
Then felt the vanity of all her care. 
And scatter'd them around. The morning 

broke. 
And hastily she left the shade, to hide 
From all her anxious heart — her misery ! 
That day she knew her fate — heard that Fer- 
nand 
Was now betroth'd to the high-born Blanche. 
Hermione wept not, although her heart 
Swell'd nigh to bursting ; but she hid her 

thoughts : 
Next morning slie was gone !----. 

The palace was all lustre ; like a dome, 
A fairy dome, the roofs were all one blaze 
With lamp and chandelier ; the mirrors shone 
Like streams of light, and, waving gracefully. 
The purple draperies hung festoon'd with 

wreaths, 

393 



liANDON's POEMS. 

That shed their incense round. Hall after 

hall 
Open'd in some new splendor. Proud the 

feast 
The duke to-night gives for his peerless child 
And Castile's noblest are all met to greet 
Blanche and her gallant lover : princely 

forms 
And ladies beautiful, whose footsteps fell 
Soft as the music which they echo'd ; ligh 
And melody, and perfume, and sweet shapes, 
Mingled together like a glorious dream. — 
Hermione is there ! She has forsaken 
Her woman's garb, her long dark tresses 

float 
Like weeds upon the Tagus, and no one 
Can in that pale and melancholy boy 
Recall the lovelj' woman. All in vain 
She look'd for him she sought ; but when one 

pass'd 
With raven hair and tall, her heart beat 

high- 
Then sank again, when her impatient 

glance 
Fell on a stranger's face. At length she 

reach'd 
A stately room, richer than all the rest, 
For there were loveliest things, though not 

of life: 
Canvas, to which the painter's soul had 

given 
A heaven of beauty ; and statues, which were 

touch'd 
With art so exquisite, the marble seem'd 
Animate with emotion. It is strange. 
Amid its deepest feelings, how the soul 
Will cling to outward images as thus 
3H 






fflS! CASTlLlAff NtfPTlALS. 

It could forget its sickness ! There she gazeJ^ 
And envied the sad smile, the patient look, 
Of a pale Magdalene i it told of grief, 
But grief long since subdued* Half curtain 'd 

round 
By vases fiU'd with fragrant shrubs, were 

shapes 
Of Grecian deities and nymphs* She drew 
Sad parallels with her of Crete, who wep 
O'er her Athenian lover's perjury. 
She left the hall of paintings, and pursued 
A corridor which open'd to the air. 
And enter 'd in the garden; there awhile, 
Beneath the shadow of a cypress tree, 
She breathed the coo'ling gale* Amid the 

shade 
Of those bright grovea were ladies lingering. 
Who listened to most gentle things, and then 
Blush 'd like the roses near them j and ligbJ 

groups 
Of gladsome dancers, gliding o'er the turf. 
Like elfins reveling by the moonlight. 
She look'd up to the lovely face of heaven ;— 
It was unclouded, and the rolling moon 
Pass'd o'er the deep blue sky like happiness. 
Leaving a trace of light. She gazed 

aronnd,— 
There was no gloom but that within her 

heart. 
Ah, this is very loneliness to feel 
So wholly destitute, withoat one thing 
That has a portion in our wretchedness I 

Then two came by — that voice to her was 
death — 
It was her false Fernand's ! A lovely girl 
Hung on his arm, so soft, so delicate, 
39& 



landon's poems. 

It seem'd a breath might sweep her from the 

earth ; 
And Fernand bent with so much tenderness 
To catch the music of the timid voice, 
Which dared not breathe its love-vow au> 

dibly. 
Hermione rush'd thence, as if her step 
Had been upon the serpent's lair. That 

night 
She brooded o'er her wrongs, and bitterly 
Prayed for revenge ! - - - And this is Wo- 
man's fate : 
All her affections are call'd into life 
By winning flatteries, and then thrown back 
liTpon themselves to perish, and her heart, 
Her trusting heart, fill'd with weak tender» 

ness, 
Is left to bleed or break ! » - - ^ 
The marriage feast was spread, the guests 

WQre round. 
The halls were fill'd with mirth, and light, 

and song. 
High o'er the rest the youthful pair were 

placed. 
Beneath a canopy of fretted gold 
And royal purple. With a shout they drank 
Health and long blessedness to the fair bride ! 
And Fernand call'd for wine, to pledge them 

back 
His thanks. A slender Page approach'd, and 

held 
The golden cup ; - - - There is a marble 

look 
In the dark countenance of that pale boy 
111 suiting one so youthful. Fernand drain'd 
The liquor to the dregs; yet, while he drank, 
He felt the eagle glance of that strange Page 
396 



0T!f>TnJrit T 



THE L^T^E'S B«GK. 

Fix on him like a spell. With a wild laugh 
Of fearless taunting, he took back the cup — 
l^hat laUgh rang like a demon's curse ! The 

sounds 
Of revelry one moment paused — ^ftiey heard 
Mutter'd the words—" Vengeance !" " Her- 

mione!" 
Blanche broke the silence by her shriek — Fer- 

nand 
Had fallen from his seat, his face was black 
With inward agony — that draught bore fate : 
That Page had poison'd him ! — In dread they 

turn'd 
To where the murderer was : she had not 

moved, 
But stood with fixed eyes ! the clouds of 

death 
Were on her face — she too had pledged the 

cup ! 



THE LOVER*S ROCE: 

O why should Fate such pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining ; 

Or why so sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining t 

This world's wealth, when I think upon't 

Is pride and a' the lave on't ; 

Fie, fie on silly coward man. 

That he should be the slave on't." — Bitkns. 

Most beautiful, most happy ! must there 
be 
Clouds on thy sky, and thorns upon thy 
path ■? 
34 39? 



■>» 



ANDOJf'S POEMS. 

Love, why art thoti so Wretched? thoU so 

form'd 
To be the blessedness of life, the last 
Sweet relic left of Eden ! Yet on thee, 
Even on tl*e, the curse is laid ! Thy cup 
Has its full share of bitterness. The heart 
Is chili'd, crush'd, and constrain'd by the cold 

world, 
Outraged and undervalued ; the fine throb 
Of feeling turned to ministers of grief) 
All is so false around, affection's self 
Becomes suspectedi But of all drear lota 
That love must draw from the dark urn of 

fate. 
There is one deepest misery— when two 

hearts, 
Born for each other, yet must beat apart. 
Aye, this is misery, to check, conceal 
That which should be our happiness and 

glory ; 
To love, to be beloved again, and know 
A gulf between us :— aye, 'tis misery ! 
This agony of passion, this wild faith, 
Whose constancy is fCHitiess^ yet is kept 
Inviolate :■— to feel that all life's hope, 
And light, and treasure, cling to one from 

whom 
Our wayward doom divides us< Better fai 
To weep o'er treachery or broken vows, — 
For time may teach their worthlessness s — of 

pine 
With unrequited love ; — there is a pride 
In the fond sacrifice — the cheek may lose 
Its summer crimson ; but at least the ros« 
Has wither'd secretly — at least, the heart 
That has been victim to its tenderness, 
Has sigh'd unecho'd by some one as true, 
S98 



THE lover's EOCK. 

As wretched as itself. But to be loved 
With feelings deep, eternal as our own, 
And yet to know that we must quell those 

feelings 
With phantom shapes of prudence, worldly 

care — 
For two who live but in each other's life, 
Whose only star in this dark world is love ! 
Alas, that circumstance has power to part 
The destiny of true fevers ! 

Yonder rock 
Has a wild legend of untoward love 
Fond, faithful, and unhappy ! There it 

stands 
By the blue Guadalquivir ; the green vines 
Are like a girdle round the granite pillars 
Of its bare crags, and its dark shadow falls 
Over an ancient castle at the base. ^ 

Its lord had a fair daughter, his sole child, 

Her picture is in the old gallery still ; 
The frame is shatter'd, but the lovely face 
Looks out hi all its beauty ; 'tis a brow 
Fresh, radiant as the spring, — a pencill'd arch. 
One soft dark shadow upon mountain snow. 
A small white hand flings back the raven 

curls 
From off the blue-vein'd temples; on her 

cheek 
There is a color like the moss rosebud 
When first it opens ere the sun and wind 
Have kiss'd away its delicate slight blush. 
And such a fairy shape, as those fine moulds 
Of ancient Greece, whose perfect grace has 

given 
Eternity to beauty. She was loved ! 
And the wild songs that tell how she was 

loved 

399 



landon's poems. 

Yet haunt their- native valley. He was one 
Who had each great and glorious gift, save 

gold; 
Music was ever round his steps : — to him 
There was deep happiness in nature's wild 
And rich luxuriance, and he had the pride, 
The buoyant hope, that genius ever feels 
In dreaming of the path that it will carve 
To immortality. A sweeter dream 
Soon fill'd the young Leandro's heart: he 

loved, 
And all around grew Paradise, — Inez 
Became to him existence, and her heart 
Soon yielded to his gentle constancy. 

They had roam'd forth together : the bright 

dew 
Was on the flowers that he knelt and gave, 
Sweet tribute, to his idol. A dark brow 
Was bent upon them — 'tis her father's brow ! 
And Inez flung he.r on his neck and wept. 
He was not one that prayers or tears might 

move; 
For he had never known that passion's 

power, 
And could not pardon it in others. Love 
To him was folly and a feverish dream, 
A girl's most vain romance — he did but 

mock 
Its truth and its devotion. " You shall win 
Your lady love," he said, with scornful smile, 
" If you can bear her, ere the sun is set, 
To yonder summit : 'tis but a light burden, 
And I have heard that lovers can do won- 
ders !" 
He deem'd it might not be; but what has 

love 
.E'er found impossible !---.. 
400 



THE lover's rock. 

Leandro took his mistress in his arms 
Crowds gather'd round to look on the pale 

youth, 
And his yet paler Inez : but she hid 
Her face upon his bosom, and her hair, 
Whose loose black tresses floated on the 

wind. 
Was wet with tears ! - • They paused to rest 

awhile 
Beneath a mulberry's cool sanctuary — 
(Ill-omen'd tree, two lovers met their death 
Beneath thy treacherous shade ! 'Twas in 

old time 
Even as now :) — it sj)read its branches round, 
The fruit hung like dark rubies 'mid the 

'' green 
Of the thick leaves, and there like treasures 

shone 
Balls of bright gold, the silkworm's summer 

palace. 
Leandro spoke most cheerfully, and soothed 
The weeping girl beside him ; but when next 
He loosed her from his arms he did not speak. 
And Inez wept in agony to look 
Upon his burning brow. The veins were 

swell'd. 
The polish'd marble of those temples now 
Were turn'd to crimson — the large heavy 

drops 
Roll'd over his flush 'd cheek — his lips were 

parch'd. 
And moisten'd but with blood ; each breath he 

drew 
Was a convulsive gasp ! She bathed his 

face 
With the cool stream, and laid her cheek to 

his — 
34* 401 



landon's poems. 

Bade him renounce his perilous attempt, 
And said, at least they now might die to- 
gether ! 
He did not listen to her words, but watch'd 
The reddening west — the sun was near the 

wave : 
He caught the fainting Inez in his arms — 
One desperate struggle — he has gain'd the 

top, 
And the broad sun has sunk beneath the 

river ! 
A shout arose from those whd watch'd ; but 

why 
Does still Leandro kneel, and Inez hang 
Motionless round his neck 1 The bloood has 

gush'd — 
The lifeblood from his heart ! a vein had 

burst. 
- - - And Inez was dead too ! - - - 



THE PAINTER. 

" I know not which, is the most fatal gift 
Genius or love, for both alike are ruled 
By stars of bright aspect and evil influence." 

He was a lonely and neglected child ! 
His cheek was colorless, save when the flush 
Of strong emotion master'd its still white- 
ness : 
His dark eyes seemed all heaviness and 

gloom, 
So rarely were they raised. His mother's 
love 

402 



THE PAINTER. 

Was for her other children : they were fair, 
And had health's morning hues and sunny 

looks. 
She had not seen him, when he watch'd the 

sun 
Setting at eve, like an idolater, 
Until his cheek grew crimson in the light 
Of the all-radiant heaven, and his eyes 
Were passionately eloquent, all fiU'd 
With earth's most glorious feelings. And his 

father, 
A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp 
Was ever on the bridle or the brand. 
Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was 
To sit for hours by a fountain side 
' tening its low and melancholy song. 
^r wander through the gardens silently. 
As if with leaves and flowers alone he held 
Aught of companionship. In his first years 
They sent him to a convent, for they said 
Its soUtude would suit with Guido's mood. 
And there he dwelt, while treasuring those 

. rich thoughts 
That are the food on which young genius 

lives. 
He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome 
Break from its purple shadows, making glad 
Even that desolate city, whose dim towers. 
Ruins, and palaces, seem as they look'd 
Back on departed time. Then in the gloom 
Of his own convent's silent burying ground. 
Where, o'er the quiet dead, the cypresses 

mourn'd. 
He pass'd the noon, dreaming those dear day- 
dreams. 
Not BO much hopes as fancies. Then at 

eve, 
^ 403 



LANDON S POEMS. 

When through the painted windows the red 

sun 
Rainbow'd the marble floor with radiant hues, 
Where spread the ancient church's stately 

arch, 
He stay'd, till the deep music of the nymn. 
Chanted to the rich organ's rolling notes, 
Bade farewell to the day. Then to his cell 
He went, and through the casement's iron 

bars 
The moon Jook'd on him, tenderly as Love, 
Lighting his slumber. On the church's 

wall 
There hung one lovely portrait, and for 

hours 
Would Guido, in the fullness of his heart, 
Kneel, watching till he wept. The subject 

was 
A dying Magdalene. Her long black hair 
Spread round her like a shroud, one pale thin 

hand 
Pillow'd a cheek as thin and pale, and scarce 
The blue light of the eyes was visible 
For the death dampness on the darkened 

lids ; — 
As one more effort to look on the cross. 
Which seem'd just falling from the fainting 

arm, 
And they would close forever. In that look 
There was a painter's immortality, 
And Guido felt it deeply, for a gift 
Like his whose work that was, was given 

him, — 
A gift of beauty and of power, — and soon 
He lived but in the exquisite creations 
His pencil call'd to life. But as his thoughts 
Took wider range, he languish'd to behold 
404 



THE PAINTER. 

More of a world he thought must be so fair, 
So fiU'd with glorious shapes. It chanced that 

he 
Whose hand had traced that pale sad loveli- 
ness, 
Came to the convent ; with rejoicing wonder 
He mark'd how like an unknown mine, whose 

gold 
Gathers in silence, had young Guide's mind 
Increased in lonely richness ; every day 
New veins of splendid thought sprang into 

life, 
And Guido left his convent cell with one 
Who, like a geni, bore him into scenes 
Of marvel and enchantment. And then first 
Did Guido feel how very precious praise 
Is to young genius, like sunlight on flowers. 
Ripening them into fruit. And time pass'd 

on: — 
The lonely and neglected child became 
One whom all Rome was proud of, and he 

dwelt 
There in the sunshine of his spreading fame. 

There was a melancholy beauty shed* 
Over his pictures, as the element 
In which his genius lived was sorrow. Love 
He made most lovely, but yet ever sad ; 
Passionate partings, such as wing the heart 
Till tears are lifeblood; meetings, when the 

cheek 
Has lost all hope of health in the long part- 
ing; 
The grave, with one mourning in solitude: 
These made his fame, and were his excel- 
lence, — 
The painter of deep tears. He had just 



gain'd 



405 



lancon's POEms. 

The summer of his glory and of his days, 
When his remembering art was call'd to give 
A longer memory to one whose life 
Was but a thread. Her history may be told 
In one word — love. And what has love e'er 

been 
But misery to woman 1 Still she wish'd — 
It was a dying fancy which betray'd 
How much, though known how false its god 

had been, 
Her soul clung to its old idolatry, — 
To send her pictured semblance to the false 

one. 
She hoped — how love will hope ! — it might 

recall 
The young and lovely girl his cruelty 
Had worn to this dim shadow; it might 

wake 
Those thousand^bnd and kind remembrances 
Which he had utterly abandon'd, while 
The true heart he had treasured next his 

own 
A little time, had never ceased to beat 
For only him, until it broke. She leant 
Beside a casement when first Guido look'd 
Upon her wasted beauty. 'Twas the brow. 
The Grecian outline in its perfect grace. 
That he had learnt to worship in his youth. 
By gazing on that Magdalene, whose face 
Was yet a treasure in his memory ; 
But sunken were the temples, — they had lost 
Their ivory roundness, yet still clear as clay 
The veins shone through them, shaded by the 

braids, 
Just simply parted back, of the dark hair, 
Where grief's white traces mock'd at youth. 

A flush, 

406 



TfiE PAINTEft. 

As shame, deep shame, had once burnt OH 

her cheek, 
trhea lingered thefe foreVer, look'd like 

health 
Offering hope, vain hopcj to the pale lip ', 
Like the rich crimson of the evening sky. 
Brightest when night is coming. Guido took 
Just one slight sketch ; next morning she was 

dead I 
Yet still he painted on, until his heart 
Grew to the picture,— it became his world,— = 
He lived but in its beauty, made his art 
Sacred to it alone. No more he gave 
To the glad canvas green and summer dreamsj 
Of the Italian valleys ; traced no more 
The dark eyes of its lovely daughters, look'd 
And caught the spirit of fine poetry 
From glorious statues : these were pass'd 

away. 
Shade after shade, line after line, each day 
Gave life to the sweet likeness. Guido 

dwelt 
In intense worship on his own creation, 
Till his cheek caught the hectic tinge he 

drew, 
And his thin hand grew tremulous. Oflti 

night— 
The portrait was just finish'd, save a touch, 
A touch to give the dark light of the eyes- 
He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand 
Scarce conscious what it wrought ; at length 

his lids 
Closed in a heavy slumber, and he dream'd 
That a fair creature came and kiss'd his brow, 
And bade him follow her : he knew the look, 
And rose. Awakening, he found himself 
Kneeling before the portrait .-—'twas so fair 
407 



lakdon's poehs. 

He deem'd it lived, and press'd his burning 

lips 
To the sweet mouth ; his soul pass'd in that 

kiss, — 
Young Guido died beside his masterpiece ! 



t*tlE SPANISH PAGE* 

OB, THE Cltx's RANSOM. 

She was a chieftain's daughter, and he a cap- 
tive boy. 
Yet, playmates and Companions, they shared 

each childish joy ; 
Their dark hair often mingled, they wander'd 

hand in hand. 
But at last the golden ransom restOi'ed him to 

his land. 
A lovely town is Seville, amid the summer 

air. 
But, though it be a little town, Xenilla is as 

fair; 
Fair are the glittering minarets where the 

purple daylight falls, 
And rosy the pomegranates of the gardens in 

its walls. 

But its pleasant days are over, for an army 

girds it round, 
With the banner of the red cross, and the 

Christian trumpet's sound ; 

408 



Tfifi SPANISH PAGE. 

They have sworn to raze the city- that in the 

sunshine stood, 
And its silvery singing fountains shall flow 

with Moslem blood. 
Fierce is the Christian leader, a young and 

orphan lord, 
For all the nobles of his house fell by the 

Moorish sword ; 
Himself was once a captive, till redeem'd by 

Spanish gold, 
Now to be paid by Moorish wealth and life an 

hundred-fold. 

The sound of war and weeping reached where 

a maiden lay, 
Fading as fades the loveliest, too soon from 

earth away. 
Dark fell the silken curtains, and still the 

court below, 
But the maiden's dream of childhood was dis- 

turb'd by wail and wo. 
She question'd of the tumult ; her pale slaves 

told the cause ; 
The color mounted to her cheek, a hasty breath 

she draws ; 
She call'd her friends around her, she whis- 

per'd soft and low, 
Like music from a wind-touch'd lute her lan- 
guid accents flow. 

Again upon her crimson couch she laid her 

weary head ; 
They look'd upon the dark-eyed maid — they 

look'd upon the dead. 
35 409 



l/AK^OK'S POEMS, 

That evening, ere the sunset grew red abovcf 

the town, 
A funeral train upon the hills came winding 

slowly down ; 
They come with moumfal chaatiifg, they bear 

the dead along, 
The sentinels stood still to hear that melan- 

cho-ly song ; 
To Don Henri^jae they bore the corpse — they 

laid it at his feet, 
Tale grew the yoathfal warrior that pale face 

to meet. 

As if in qaieft slHmber the Moforish msid Vfs» 

laid. 
And her white hands were fdded, as if in 

death she pray'd ; 
Her Igng black hair on either side was parted 

on her brow. 
And her coM cheek was colder than marble or 

than snow. 
Yet lovelier than a living thing she met the 

warrior's gaze. 
Around her was the memory of saany happy 

days. 
He knew his young companion, though long 

dark years had flown } 
Well had she kept her childish faith — she wa» 

in death bis own, 

" Bring ye this here, a ransom for those de- 
voted walls!" 

None answer'd — but around the tent a deepey 
silence falls ; 

410 



■~? 



THE HALL OF GLEN XJl QUO ICH. 

IVone knew the maiden's meaning, save he 

who bent above, 
Ah ! only love can read within the hidden 

heart of love. 
There came from these white silent lips more 

eloquence than breath, 
The tenderness of childhood — the sanctity of 

death. 
He felt their old familiar love had ties he 

could not break, 
The warrior spared the Moorish town for that 

dead maiden's sake. 



THE HALL OF GLENNAQUOICH. 

No more the voice of feasting is heard amid 

those halls, 
The grass grows o'er the hearthstone, the fern 

o'ertops the walls ; 
And yet those scenes are present, as they were 

of our age — 
Such is the mighty mastery of one enchanted 



The name of Scott awakens a world within 
the heart ; 

The scenes are not more real wherein our- 
selves have part 

Beneath the tree in sunshine — beside the 
hearth in snow, 

What hours of deep enjoyment to him and his 
we owe ! 

411 



liANDON'S POEMS. 

And yet recall the giver — recall him as those 

saw 
Before his glorious being ooey'd our nature's 

law; 
His strength has soon departed — his cheek is 

sunk and wan — 
He is, before his season, a worn and weary 

man. 

The fine creative spirit that lit his path of 
yore, 

Its light remains for others — it warms him- 
self no more 

The long and toilsome midnight, the fever and 
the haste. 

The trouble and the trial, have done their 
work of waste. 

And such is still the recompense appointed 

for the mind. 
That seeketh, with its eyes afar, the glory of 

its kind. 
The poet yields the beautiful that in his being 

lives I 
Unthankful, cold, and careless, are they to 

whom he gives. 

They dwell amid his visions — for new delights 
they cry ; 

But he who form'd the lovely may lay hira 
down and die. 

Then comes the carved marble — then late re- 
morse is shown, 

And the poet's search for sympathy ends in a 
funeral stone. 

412 



GIBRALTAR. 

SCENE DTTRIlfO THB PLAaUK. 

At first, I only buried one, 

And she was borne along 
By kindred mourners to her grave, 

With sacred rite and song. 
At first they sent for me to pray 

Beside the bed of death : 
They bless'd their household, and they breath'd 

Prayer in their latest breath. 
But then men died more rapidly — 

They had not time to pray ; ' 

And from the pillow love had smooth'd 

Fear fled in haste away. 
And then there came the fasten'd door — 

Then came the guarded street — 
Friends in the distance watch'd for friends ; 

Watch'd, — that they might not meet. 
And Terror by the hearth stood cold, 

And rent all natural ties, 
And men, upon the bed of death, 

Met only stranger eyes : 
The nurse — and guard, stern, harsh, and wan 

Remain'd, unpitying, by ; 
They had known so much wretchedness. 

They did not fear to die. 
Heavily rung the old church bells. 

But no one came to prayer: 
The weeds were growing in the street, 

Silence and Fate were there. 
O'er the first grave by which I stood, 

Tears fell, and flowers were thrown. 
The last grave held six hundred lives, 
And there I stood alone. 
35* 415 



THE BASQUE GIRL AND HENRI 
QUATRE. 

Love ! summer flower, how soon thou art decay'd. 

Opening amid a paradise of sweets, 

Dying with wither'd leaves an'd canker'd stem ! 

The very memory of thy happiness 

Departed with thy beauty ; breath and bloom 

Gone, and the trusting heart which thou hast made 

So green, so lovely, for thy dwelling-place, 

Left but a desolation. 

'TwAs one of those sweet spots which seem 
just made 
For lovers' meeting, or for minstrel haunt ; 
The maiden's blush would look s6 beautiful 
By those white roses, and the poet's dream 
Would be so soothing, luU'd by the low notes 
The birds sing to the leaves, whose soft reply 
Is murmur'd by the wind : the grass beneath 
Is full of wild flowers, and the cypress boughs 
Have twined o'er head, graceful and close as 

love. 
The sun is shining cheerfully, though scarce 
His rays may pierce through the dim shade, 

yet still 
Some golden hues are glancing o'er the trees, 
And the blue flood is gliding by, as bright 
As Hope's first smile. All, lingering, stay'd 

to gaze 
Upon this Eden of the painter's art, 
And, looking on its loveliness, forgot 
The crowded world around them ! — But a spell 
Stronger than the green landscape fix'd the 
eye — 

414 



THE BASQUE GIEL. 

The spell of woman's beauty ! — By a beech 
Whose long dark shadow fell upon the stream, 
There stood a radiant girl ! her chestnut hair — 
One bright gold tint was on it — loosely fell 
In large rich curls upon a neck whose snow 
And grace were like the swan's ; she wore the 

garb 
Of her own village, and her small white feet 
And slender ankles, delicate as carved 
From Indian ivory, were bare — the turf 
Seem'd scarce to feel their pressure. There 

she stood ! 
Her head lean'd on her arm, the beech's trunk 
Supporting her slight figure, and one hand 
■Prest to her heart, as if to still its throbs ! — 
You never might forget that face, — so young, 
So fair, yet traced with such deep characters 
Of inward wretchedness ! The eyes were dim. 
With tears on the dark lashes ; still the lip 
Could not quite lose its own accustom'd smile ; 
Even by that pale cheek it kept its arch 
And tender playfulness : you look'd and said, 
What can have shadow'd such a sunny brow 1 
There is so much of natural happiness 
In that bright countenance, it seems but form'd 
For spring's light sunbeams, or yet lighter 

dews, 
You turn'd away — then came — and look'd 

again, 
Watching the pale and silent loveliness, 
Till even sleep was haunted by that image. 
There was a sever'd chain upon the ground— 
Ah, love is even more fragile than its gifts ! 
A tress of raven hair : — O, only those 
Whose souls have felt this one idolatry. 
Can tell how precious is the shghtest thing 
Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower 
415 



' landon's poems. 

Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks 
That mafic each leaf a treasure. And the tree 
Had two slight words graven upon its stem — 
The broken heart's last record of its faith — 
" Adibu, Henhi !".... 
. . . I learnt the history of the lovely pic- 
ture: 
It was a peasant girl's, whose soul was given 
To one as far above her as the pine 
Towers o'er the lowly violet : yet still 
She loved, and was beloved again — ere yet 
The many trammels of the world were flung 
Around a heart whose first and latest pulse 
Throbb'd but for beauty : him, the young, the 

brave, 
Chivalrous prince, whose name in after years 
A nation was to worship — that young heart 
Beat with its first wild passion — that pure 

feeling 
Life only once may know. I will not dwell 
On how Affection's bark was launch'd and 

lost : — 
Love, thou hast hopes like summers, short and 

bright, 
Moments of ecstasy, and maddening dreams, 
Intense, delicious throbs ! But happiness 
Is not for thee. If ever thou hast known 
Quiet, yet deep enjoyment, 'tis or ere 
Thy presence is confess'd ; but, once reveal'd 
W.e bow us down in passionate devotion 
Vow'd to thy altar, then the serpents wake 
That coil around thy votaries — hopes that 

make 
Fears burning arrows — lingering jealousy. 
And last, worst poison of thy cup — neglect ! 
. . . It matters little how she was forgotten. 
Or what she felt — a woman can but weep. 
416 



THE painter's LOVE. 

She pray'd. her lover but to say farewell — 
To meet her by the river where such hours 
Of happiness had pass'd, and said she knew 
How much she was beneath him ; but she 

pray'd 
That he would look upon her face once more ! 
. . . He sought the spot— upon the beechen 

tree 
" Adieu, Henki !" was graven, and his heart 
Felt cold within him ! He turn'd to the .wave, 
And there the beautiful peasant floated — Death 
Had seal'd Love's sacrifice ! 



THE PAINTER'S LOVE 

YouK skies are blue, your sun is bright ; 
But sky nor sun has that sweet light 
Which gleam'd upon the summer sky 
Of my own lovely Italt ! 
'Tis long since I have breathed the air. 
Which, fiU'd with odors, floated there, — 
Sometimes in sleep a gale sweeps by. 
Rich with the rose and myrtle's sigh ; — 
'Tis long since I have seen the vine 
With Autumn's topaz clusters shine ! 
And watch'd the laden branches bending. 
And heard the vintage songs ascending ; 
'Tis very long since I have seen 
The ivy's death-wreath, cold and green. 
Hung round the old and broken stone 
Raised by the hands now dead and gone 
I do remember one lone spot, 
By most unnoticed or forgot — 
417 



LAJTDOK S POEKS. 

Wouid that I too recalPd it not ! 

It was a little temple, gray, 

With half its pillars worn away, 

No roof left, but one cypress tree 

Flinging its branches mournfully : 

In ancient days this was a shrine 

For goddess or for nymph divine. 

And sometimes I have dream'd I heard 

A step soft as a lover's word, 

And caught a perfume on the air. 

And saw a shadow gliding fair. 

Dim, sad as if it came to sigh 

O'er thoughts, and things, and time pass'd by • 

On one side of the temple stood 

A deep and solitary wood, 

Where chestnuts rear'd their giant length. 

And mock'd the fallen column's strength ; 

It was the lone wood-pigeon's home, 

And flocks of them would ofttimes come. 

And, lighting on the temple, pour 

A cooing dirge to days no more ! 

And by its side there was a lake 

With only snow-white swans to break. 

With ebon feet and silver wing. 

The quiet waters' glittering. 

And when sometimes, as eve closed in, 

I waked my lonely mandolin. 

The gentle birds came gliding near. 

As if they loved that song to hear. 

'Tis past, 'tis past, my happiness 
Was all too pure and passionless ! 
I waked from calm and pleasant dreams 
To watch the morning's earliest gleams. 
Wandering with light feet 'mid the dew, 
Till my cheek caught its rosy hue ; 
And when uprose the bright-eyed moon, 
• 418 



tHE FAlKTEfi'^S LOVE'* 

I sorrow'd day was done so soon ; 
Save that I loved the sweet starlight. 
The soft, the happy sleep of night ! 

Time has changed since, and I have wept 
The day away ; and when I slept, 
My sleeping eyes ceased not their tears 
And jealousies, griefs, hopes, and fears, 
Even in slumber held their reign, 
And gnaw'd my heart, and rack'd my brain I 

such, — -most withering, 'tis to feel 
The hours like guilty creatures steal, 
To wish the weary day was past. 
And yet to have no hope at last ! 
All's in that curse, aught else above^ 
That fell on me — betrayed love ! 

There was a stranger sought our lan^« 
A youth, who with a painter's hand 
Traced out sweet valleys and our vinesy 
The moonlight on the roin'd shrines. 
And now and then the brow of pearl 
And black eyes of the peasant girl } 
We met and loved— ah ! even now 
My pulse throbs to recall that vow 
Our first feiss seal'd, we stood beneath 
The cypress tree's funereal wreath, 
That temple's roof. But what thought I 
Of aught like evil augury ! 

1 only felt his burning sighs, 
I only look'd within his eyes, 
I saw no dooming star above. 
There is such happiness in love ( 
I left, with him, my native shore. 
Not as a bride who passes o'er 

Her father's threshold with his blessing. 
With flowers strewn and friends caressing,. 
419 



LAkTDON'S POEMS. 

Kind words, and purest hopes to cheef 
The bashfulness of toaiden fear ; 
But I— I i3ed as culprits fly, 
By night, watch'd only by one eye, 
Whose look was all the world to me. 
And it met mine so tenderly, 
I thought not of the days to come, 
I thought not of my own sweet home, 
■ Nor of mine aged father's sorrow, — 
Wild love takes no thought for to-morrow. 
I left my home, and I was left 
A stranger in his land, bereft 
Of even hope ; there was not one 
Famihar face to look upon. — 
Their speech was strange. This penalty 
Was meet ; but surely not from thee. 
False love ! — 'twas not for thee to break 
The heart but sullied for thy sake !— 

I could have wish'd once more to see 
Thy green hills, loveliest Italy ! 
I could have wish'd yet to have huug 
Upon the music of thy tongue ; 
I could have wish'd thy flowers to bloom— 
Thy cypress planted by the tomb ! 
This wish is vain, my grave must be 
Far distant from my own country ! 
I must rest here. O lay me then 
By the white church in yonder glen. 
Amid the darkening elms, it seems, 
Thus silvered over by the beams 
Of the pale moon, a very shrine 
For wounded hearts — it shall be mine ! 
There is one corner, green and lone, 
A dark yew over it has thrown 
Long, nightlike boughs ; 'tis thickly set 
With primrose and with violet. 
420 



ON A STAR. 

I'heir bloom's now past ; but in the spring 
They will be sweet and glistening. 
There is a bird, too, of your clime, 
That sings there in the winter time t 
My funeral hymn his song will be, 
Which there are nonfe to chant, save he } . 
And let there be memorial none, 
No name upon the cold white stone ; 
The only heart where I would be 
Remember'd, is now dead to me ! 
I would not even have him weep 
O'er his Italian love's last sleep. 
O, tears are a most worthless token 
When hearts they would have soothed are 
broken ! 



ON A STAR. 



BEAtTTiFtTL star, that art wandering through 
The midnight ocean's waves of blue ! 
I have watch'd since thy first pale ray 
Rose on the farewell of summer's day,-^ 
From thy first sweet shrine on the twilight 

hour, 
To thy present blaze of beauty and power ! 
Would I could read my destiny, 
Lovely and glorious star, in thee ! 
Yet why should I wish 1 — I know too well 
What thy tablet of light would tell 
What, O what could I read there. 
But the depths of Love's despair^ — 
Blighted feelings, like leaves that fall 
The first from April's coronal, — 
Hopes like meteors, that shine and depart-^— 
An early grave, and a broken heart \ 
36 421 



SONG. 

Oh, never another dream can be 

Like that early dream of oufs, 
When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep, 

Like a child, among the flowers. 

But Hope has waken'd since, and wept, 

Like a rainbow, itself away ; 
And the flowers have faded and fallen around, 

We have none for a wreath to-day. 

Now wisdom wakes in the place of Hope, 
And our hearts afe like winter hours i 

Ah, after life has been little worth 
That early dream of ours ! 



SONG. 



1 PEAT thee let me Weep to-night, 

'Tis rarely I am weeping ; 
My tears are buried in my heart, 

Like cavc'lock'd fountains sleeping? 

But O, to-night, those words of thine 
Have brought the past before me ; 

And shadows of long-vanish'd years 
Are passing sadly o'er me. 

The friends I loved in early youth, 

The faithless and forgetting, 
Whom, though they were not worth my love^ 

I cannot help regretting ;^-' 
422 



ONEf DAY. 

My feelings, once the kind, the warm, 
But now the hard, the frozen ; 

The errors I've too long pursued, 
The path I should have chosen; — 

The hopes that are like failing lights 
Around my pathway dying ; 

The consciousness none others rise, 
Their vacant place supplying ; — 

The knowledge by experience taught, 
The useless, the repelling ; 

For what avails to know how false 
Is all the charmer's telling ] 

I would give worlds, could I believe 
One half that is profess'd me ; 

Affection ! could I think it Thee 
When Flattery has caress'd me ? 

I cannot bear to think of this, — 
O leave me to my weeping ! 

A few tears for that grave, my heart. 
Where hope in death is sleeping. 



ONE DAY. 

And this the change from morniBg to midnight. 

The sunshine of the morning 

Is abroad upon the sky, 
And glorious as that red sunshine 

The crimson banners fly ; 
423 



LANDON S POEMS. 

The snow-white plumes are dancing, 

Flash casques and helms of gold : 
'Tis the gathering of earth's chivalry, 

Her proud, her young, her bold. 
The fiery steeds are foaming. 

Sweeps by the trumpet blast, 
I hear a long and pealing shout, 

The soldier bands are past. 

The sunshine of the morning 

Is abroad upon the sea j 
And mistress of the wave and wind 

Yon vessel seems to be. 
Like the pine-tree of the forest 

Her tall mast heavenward springs, 
Her white sails bear her onward 

Like the eagle's rushing wings. 
That deck is nobly laden, 

For gallant hearts are there ; 
What danger is't they would not face, 

The deed they would not dare 1 

The sunshine of the morning 

Is abroad upon the hills, 
With the singing of the greenwood leaves 

And of a thousand rills. 
There springs the youthful hunter 

With his winged spear and bow. 
He hath the falcon's flashing eye, 

The fleet foot of the roe. 
He goes with a light carol, 

And his own heart is light ; 
On, on he bounds from rock to rock, 

Rejoicing in his might. 

The sunshine of the morning 
Is abroad upon yon fane, 
424 



ONE DAT. 

There, 'mid his country's monuments, 
Dreams the young bard his strain. 

Stand there on marble pedestal 
The great of olden time : 

Marvel ye the minstrel's brow is flush'd 
With thoughts and hopes sublime 1 

The moonshine of the midnight 

Is abroad upon the plain : 
Where gather'd morning's glorious ranks, 

There welter now the slain. 
Thousands are sunk there dying, 

Pillow'd upon the dead ; 
The banner lies by the white plume, 

But both alike are red. 

The moonshine of the midnight 

Is abroad upon the seas : 
The waves have risen in their might 

To battle with the breeze. 
That ship has been the victim ; 

Stranded on yon bleak coast, 
She has lost her mast, her winged sails, 

And her deck its warlike boast. 
O'er her bravest sweep the waters, 

And a pale and ghastl}' band 
Cling to the black rock's side, or pace 

Like ghosts the sullen strand. 

The moonshine of the midnight 

Is abroad upon the hills ; 
No hunter's step is ringing there 

No horn the echo fills. 
He is laid on a snow pillow, 

Which his red heart-blood has dyed ; 
One false step, and a jagg'd rock 

Enter'd the hunter's side. 
36* 425 



landon's poems. 

The moonshine of the midnight 

Is shining o'eir the fane : 
Where the bard awoke the morning song 

He'll never wake again. 
Go thou to yon lone cavern, 

Where the lonely ocean sweeps 
There, silent as its darkness, 

A maniac vigil keeps. 
'Tis the bard : his curse is on him, 

His fine mind is o'erthrown, 
Contempt hath jarr'd its tuneful chords, 

Neglect destroy'd its tone. 

These are but few from many 

Of life's checker'd scenes ; yet these 
Are but as all. — pride, power, hope. 

Then weakness, grief, disease. 
glory of the morning ! 

O ye gifted, young, and brave ! 
What end have ye, but midnight 1 

What find ye, but the grave 1 



LOVE'S LAST LESSON. 

Teach it me, if you can — forgetfulness ! 
I surely shall forget, if you can bid me ; 
I who have worshipp'd thee, my god on earth, 
I who have bow'd me at thy lightest word. 
Your last command, " Forget me," will it not 
Sink deeply down within my inmost soul 1 
Forget thee ! — ay, forgetfulness will be • 
A mercy to me. By the many nights 
When I have wept for that I dared not sleep, 
426 



love's last lesson. 

A dream had made me live my woes again 
Acting my wretchedness, without the hope 
My foohsh heart still clings to, though that 

hope 
Is like the opiate which may lull awhile. 
Then wake to double torture ; by the days 
Pass'd in lone watching and in anxious fears, 
When a breath sent the crimson to my cheek, 
Like the red gushing of a siidden wound ; 
By all the careless looks and careless words 
Which have to me been like the scorpion's 

stinging ; 
By happiness blighted, and. by thee, forever ; 
By the eternal work of wretchedness ; 
By all my wither'd feelings, ruin'd health, 
Crush'd hopes, and rifled heart, I will forget 

thee! 
Alas ! my words are vanity. Forget thee ! 
Thy work of wasting is too surely done. 
The April shower may pass and be forgotten. 
The rose fall and one fresh spring in its place, 
And thus it may be with light summer love- 
It was not thus with mine : it did not spring, 
Like the bright color on an evening cloud. 
Into a moment's life, brief, beautiful ; 
Not amid lighted halls, when flatteries 
Steal on the ear like dew upon the rose. 
As soft, as soon dispersed, as quickly pass'd ; 
But you first call'd my woman's feelings forth, 
And taught me love ere I had dream'd love's 

name. 
I loved unconsciously ; your name was all 
That seem'd in language, and to me the world 
Was only made for you ; in solitude. 
When passions hold their interchange to- 
gether, 
Your image was the shadow of my thought ; 
427 



LAN don's poems. 

Never did slave, before his Eastern lord, 
Tremble as I did when I met your eye, 
And yet each look viras counted as a prize ; 
I laid your words up in my heart like pearls 
Hid in the ocean's treasure cave. At last 
I learn'd my heart's deep secret : for I hoped, 
I dream'd you loved me ; wonder, fear, delight. 
Swept my heart like a storm ; my soul, my life, 
Seem'd all too little for your happiness ; 
Had I been mistress of the starry worlds 
That light the midnight, they had all been 

yours. 
And I had deem'd such boon but poverty ; 
As it was, I gave all I could — my love. 
My deep, my true, my fervent, faithful love ; 
And now you bid me learn forgetfulness : 
It is a lesson that I soon shall learn. 
There is a home of quiet for the wretched, 
A somewhat dark, and cold, and silent rest, 
But still it is rest, — ^for it is the grave. 

She flung aside the scroll, as it had part 
In her great misery. Why should she write 1 
What could she write 1 Her woman's pride 

forbade 
To let him look upon her heart, and see 
It was in utter ruin ; and cold words. 
And scorn and slight, that may repay his own. 
Were as foreign language, to whose sound 
She might not frame her utterance. Down 

she bent 
Her head upon an arm so white that tears 
Seemed but the natural melting of its snow, 
Touch'd by the flush'd cheek's crimson; yet 

life-blood 
Less wrings in shedding than such tears as 

those. 

428 



love's last lesson. 

And this then is loves's ending ! It is like 
The history of some fair southern clime. 
Hot fires are in the bosom of the earth, 
And the warm'd soil puts forth its thousand 

flowers, 
Its fruits of gold, summer's regality, 
And sleep and odors float upon the air : " 
At length the subterranean element 
Breaks from its secret dwelling-place, and lays 
All waste before it ; the red lava stream 
Sweeps like the pestilence ; and that which 

was 
A garden in its colors and its breath. 
Fit for the princess of a fairy tale, ' 

Is as a desert, in whose burning sands. 
And ashy waters, who is there can trace 
A sign, a memory of its former beauty 1 
It is thus with the heart ; love lights it up 
With hopes like young companions, and with 

joys 
Dreaming deliciously of their sweet selves. 

This is at first ; but what is the result t 
Hopes that lie mute in their own suUenness, 
For they have quarrell'd even with themselves , 
And joys indeed like birds of Paradise :* 
And in their stead despair coils scorpionlike 
Stinging itself; and the heart, burnt and 

crush'd 
With passion's earthquake, scorch'd and 

wither'd up. 
Lies in its desolation, — this is love. 



* la Eastern tales, tlie bird of Paradise never resla 
on earth. 

429 



landon's poems. 

What is the tale that I would tell 1 Not 
one 
Of strange adventure ; but a common tale 
Of woman's wretchedness ; one to be read 
Daily in many a young and blighted heart. 
Ti^e lady whom I spake of rose again 
From the red fever's couch, to careless eyes 
Perchance the same as she had ever been. 
But O how altered to herself! She felt 
That birdlike pining for some gentle home 
To which affection might attach itself, 
That weariness which hath but outward part 
In what the world calls pleasure, and that chill 
Which makes life taste the bitterness of death. 

And he she loved so well, — what opiate 
LuU'd consciousness into its selfish sleep 1 — 
He said he loved her not ; that never vow 
Or passionate pleading won her soul for him ; 
And that he guess'd not her deep tenderness. 

Are words, then, only false 1 are there no 

looks 
Mute but most eloquent ; no gentle cares 
That win so much upon the ftir weak things 
They seem to guard 1 And had he not long 

read 
Her heart's hush'd secret in the soft dark eye 
Lighted at his approach, and on the cheek 
Coloring all crimson at his slightest look ] 
This is the truth ; his spirit wholly turn'd 
To stern ambition's dream, to that fierce strife 
Which leads to life's high places, and reck'd 

not 
What lovely flowers might perish in his path 
430 



APRIL. 

And here at length is somewhat of revenge I 
For man's most golden dreams of pride and 

power 
Are vain as any Woman dreams of love ; 
Both end in weary brow and wither'd heart, 
And the geave closes over those whose hopes 
Have Iain there long before* 



APRIL. 



Of all the months that fill the yeaf 
Give April's month to me, 

For earth and sky are then so fiU'd 
With sweet variety* 

The apple-blossoms' shower of rose, 
The pear'tree's peariy hue, 

As beautiful as woman's blush. 
As evanescent too. 

The purple light, that like a sigh 
Comes from the violet bed, 

As there the perfume of the East 
Had all their odors shed. 

The wild-briar rose, a fragrant cup 
To hold the morning's tear ; 

The bird's eye, like a sapphire star j 
The- primrose, pale like fear. 

The balls that hang like drifted snoW 

Upon the guelderose ; 
The woodbine's fairy trumpets, where 

The elf his war-note blows. 
431 



landon's poems. 

On every bough there is a bud, 

In every bud a flower ; 
But scarcely bud or flower will last 

Beyond the present hour. 

Nbw comes a shower-cloud o'dr the sky, 

Then all again sunshine ; 
Then clouds again, but brighten'd with 

The rainbow's color'd Hne. 

Ay, this, this is the mctnth for me ! 
' I could not love a scene 
Where the blue sky was always blue, 
The green earth always green« 

It is like love ; love should be 

An ever-changing thing t 
The love that I could worship must 

Be ever on the wing. 

The chain my mistress flings round me 
Must be both brief and bright ; 

Or form'd of opals, which will change 
With every changing light* 

To"morrow she must turtl to sighS 
The smiles she wore to-day ; ' 

This moment's look of tenderness, 
The next one must be gay. 

Sweet April! thou the emblem art 

Of what my love must be ; 
One varying like the varying bloom 

Is just the love for me. 
432 



/ ZX.th^^ 



^ 



^i^r-a 



^ / 



u 



t^C4A. ' 



""'hh BO 



^^-n^. 



^0 jP^. -V^J^i^WINJ' 




^^ ^ C* V , '^^^f^^ * ^ ^ Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proce 

^^'^ ^ 'Tj *''^^^^^^^* ^*^ *- Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 

„ '^ ^ * '^tyy/Vdt^ & Treatment Date: April 2009 

x'^ r.o "^^ '" .<^ .- PreservationTechnologiG 

-^■' ».*^^'« iv >- ^ *^<$^3 AWORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATI 









111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 
(724)779-2111 









^ "^ v?* °,^ *•-» ,^0 v. 












N. MANCHESTER 
INDIANA 46962 







LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 494 468 9 • 



